


The Spy Left Out in the Cold

by 221Browncoat



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Whump, Gen, M/M, Rewrite, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Whump, fake death, gaby is along for the ride, happy 5 year anniversary TMFU, illya and napoleon love each other, it's okay in the end i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25902160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Browncoat/pseuds/221Browncoat
Summary: A simple extraction gone very wrong--leading our little team of spies to feel what it is to lose one of their own.  Feat. feelings of helplessness, sad chess, and bucketloads of angst.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 124
Kudos: 177





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a rewrite of my 2018-ish (I think) fic of the same title! I've been reworking it for awhile in an attempt to better build tension n stuff. You can expect bi-weekly updates for the foreseeable future! If I don't, I've probably forgotten so feel free to remind me (with a review, too please ;) ). Love you all and hope you're well in these turbulent times!

Waverly is unfolding a crudely drawn map when Napoleon stretches in his seat in an obvious display of boredom that has Illya rolling his eyes.

"I don't know what you're so worried about. It sounds like a simple extraction," Napoleon says with a sniff.

"Oh?" Waverly says.

"Another rich politician's entitled son, kidnapped from his private school or Wimbledon lessons, taken for ransom or leverage or whatever these bastards are after. We'll just waltz in, kidnap him back, and take him home to daddy. Simple."

Waverly looks unimpressed. "Do try and remember this is a stealth mission, Solo. Hardly the time for waltzing." He gives him one last disapproving look before turning back to the map spread out on the desk. "Our man on the inside says Janssen's son is being kept in this outbuilding, here. You're to retrieve him as quickly as possible _without_ drawing attention to yourselves. Is that clear?"

Napoleon shrugs. "It certainly isn't anything I haven't dealt with before."

Waverly raises his eyebrows in a look that Illya has come to learn means something like, _you're completely bloody wrong._ "Well, um, how are you with children?" the Brit asks, a hint of smugness in his voice. "Because the prince's son is, I believe, five years old."

Illya isn't fond of children, much less the small ones, and he can't help but make a face of disgust. Napoleon, on the other hand, looks more terrified than anything else.

"Problem, Cowboy?" Illya says wryly.

"You may not believe this," Napoleon answers slowly, "but even given my considerable charm, I am not gifted with children." He looks at Waverly with an expression of pleading. "Why don't you send Gaby with Illya?"

"She's been assigned to another operation. Unless you'd like to trade places with her and seduce an arms dealer?"

Napoleon shrugs. "Given the choice…"

"Come on, Cowboy," Illya says, nudging the American in the ribs. "Don't let him intimidate you." He lowers his voice. "Children can smell fear you know."

Napoleon scowls at him, then turns to Waverly and narrows his eyes. "Fine. But this better be an isolated incident, or I'm going back to the CIA."

xxx

They make it into the outbuilding easily enough. There are two guards at the end of the hall, at the door where Waverly's source said the boy is being kept, and they're dispatched easily enough. What the agents don't bank on, however, is the third man, in the room with the boy. He manages to get off a warning shout just before Napoleon can reach him.

"They definitely heard that," Napoleon says as he lowers the dead guard to the ground. He can see the trembling child out of the corner of his eye. And he can hear the shouts of men, getting closer. "What do we do with him while we take care of them?"

Illya does a quick scan of the room before crossing to a large cabinet and pulling out the contents, scattering them on the cold cement. He looks up at Napoleon. "Here."

Napoleon scoops up the boy and stows him in the small space. "We'll be right back," he says before putting a finger to his lips and closing the boy in. He removes his knife from the guard's chest. "Let's go."

They work quickly, and although they're outnumbered, they work together well and are both well-trained in the art of killing efficiently and so are able to hold their own-though by the time they get to the last man they've both been disarmed. Illya wrestles him into a chokehold and looks up at Napoleon, straining.

"I've got him. You go get the boy."

Napoleon nods and runs back to the other room, rushing in and flinging open the cabinet door. The boy jumps and lets out a cry."

" _Qui es-tu?_ " he whimpers, shrinking away from the American with wide eyes.

Napoleon closes his eyes and sighs as the smell of urine reaches him, trying not to look and sound as fed up as he feels. "I'm here to help you."

The boy stares at him with wide eyes, his lower lip quivering as he scrunches himself further in the corner.

Napoleon rolls his eyes and lets out a small sound of frustration, which he quickly smothers with a smile and quirked eyebrows. "Listen, I'm a friend, you understand? _Camarde_!"

The boy just shakes his head and sniffles.

He's usually very skilled at keeping his personal feelings in check, but Napoleon is growing increasingly irritated. There's a reason he avoids children. They don't listen to reason, they have the communicative abilities of a goldfish, and they are so damn _emotional_. He takes a deep breath. "Look, kid-"

Just then, the door bursts open and Illya appears, panting, his expression equal parts confused and annoyed. "What is taking so long? We have to go!"

Napoleon shrugs helplessly and gestures at the cowering child.

"Move," Illya says, and Napoleon scootches to the side. Illya bends down so he's eye-level with the kid and gives him a small wave. " _Salut ami. Je suis la pour te ramener à ton père._ "

Napoleon frowns, giving Illya a sideways look. "Since when do you know French?" he asks, simultaneously impressed and annoyed.

Illya glances over at him. "Since Waverly had me and Gaby learn while you were studying Farsi. Now shut up and let me talk to the boy." He turns back to the kid. " _Allons-y, petit prince_!"

The kid whispers something that Napoleon can't hear and Illya snorts.

"What?" Napoleon asks, trying to sound less interested than he actually is.

Illya grins. "He says he does not like you."

Napoleon feels his eyes narrow as he opens his mouth, then closes it. He isn't surprised, really. He doesn't care, either-but he does care that Illya seems to be doing fine. With the kid, with the French...It's irritating to be behind. But if he's going to have to be the backup, then he's going to be the best backup, damn it. "Why don't I go find a blanket. We have to get to the rendezvous on foot and he's not exactly dressed for the weather."

"Good idea," Illya answers as Napoleon slips behind him and out into the hall.

It doesn't take him long to find a large blanket. The compound isn't exactly cozy, and even evil child-snatching terrorists get cold, it seems. He snatches up the olive green wool monstrosity and makes his way back to Illya and the child.

"Here," he says, holding it out to Illya, who's somehow managed to coax the boy out of hiding.

Illya takes it and wraps it tightly around the boy, who watches Napoleon with a solemn gaze.

"How did you get him to come out?" he asks, slightly unnerved at the kid's apparent ability to not blink.

"Children can sense when you do not like them," Illya responds, scooping the child into his arms.

Napoleon snorts. "I saw your face when Waverly told us the mission. "You don't like kids any more than I do."

Illya shrugs. "I guess I'm good at pretending. Now come, it's nearly dawn, and there is not much daylight to get to the extraction point."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow as he stepped back out into the hallway and did a quick sweep. "Since when are you good at pretending?"

"I pretend to like you don't I?"

"Ha ha ha," Napoleon responded. "And that was me pretending to laugh. Now let's get the hell out of here. He looks out into the hall and grimaces.

"Tell him to close his eyes," he says, stepping over the arm of a dead man. His boot lands in a pool of blood.

" _Ferme tes yeux_ ," Illya says, and Napoleon almost smiles at the gentleness in his voice.

"You lied to me, Peril. I thought you didn't like kids." He moved over so he could turn and see Illya's face more easily.

"I don't," Illya says. "I just know how to talk to them. You give me plenty of practice."

Napoleon lets out a sound of mock hurt as they pick their way through the carnage to the exit. "You've been spending too much time with Gaby. Out little harpy seems to be rubbing off on you."

"She says the same thing about you. I think you're both to blame."

Napoleon can't stop the small laugh that erupts from him. "Yes, that's probably true." He's turning to say something else when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Things happen quickly from there-Napoleon, placing his body between the man and Illya at the same time that he shouts for his partner to look out, his gun already out of its holster, his finger already tightening. He's barely gotten the shot off before he feels it, in his left side, hot and sharp. He hears the child scream, and Illya shouting his name.

"I'm _fine_ ," Napoleon insists. "I'll be fine. We have to get him out of here. Once we're beyond the compound we can try and figure out what to do about...this."

There's a long pause before Illya says, "Okay." He doesn't sound convinced, but he starts walking again. It isn't long before he takes the lead, for which Napoleon is grateful.

The adrenaline is wearing off by the time they clear the compound (which, by some miracle, hasn't been stirred into action by the gunshots), and the pain in his side is getting worse with every step he takes. He does his best to ignore it. The further he can make it, the more likely Illya will be to listen to reason. Because, though he wouldn't dare say anything until he absolutely has to, Napoleon knows he'll never make it to the rendezvous.

xxx


	2. Chapter 2

"How...how much further?"

Illya is startled at how frail the American sounds, and for what seems like the hundredth time in this hellish trek, he wishes he could give him a helping hand. Unfortunately, though, Illya's arms are full of a very small and trembling member of the Belgian nobility.

"Not far now, Cowboy," he answers. A lie. He knows it. He knows Solo knows it, too. "How are you holding up?"

"Okay. 'm okay," Napoleon responds, but it's another lie.

Illya stops walking and turns around. His partner is barely standing, his face pale, forehead beaded with sweat despite the chill in the air. One gloved hand is clamped firmly against his right side, somewhere between his hip and ribcage. There's a red stain in the snow below him. Illya cranes his neck to see behind the agent and is overcome with a sinking feeling as he spies the trail of blood.

He makes a decision.

"We're going to take a break and stop the bleeding."

" _Pourquoi sommes-nous arrêtés_?" wonders the bundle in his arms. Illya looks down at the boy and forces a smile.

" _Juste un petit prince_ ," he replies.

"No. Just...you just go," Napoleon says, lowering himself gracelessly to the ground and landing in the snow with a light _thump_.

"What are you talking about? I'm not going to leave you here," Illya says. He struggles to get the words out, as his throat has grown suddenly and inexplicably dry. He can feel the child gazing up at him.

Napoleon smiles slightly. He looks tired. "I'm shot, Kuryakin. Even if...even if we get this bleeding stopped, I'll never make the rendezvous point. You need to take the kid and get out of here."

Illya knows he's right. But he doesn't want him to be. "Maybe we could…" He sighs. "What if they come for him? What will you do?"

"Help me get off the road," Napoleon responds, ignoring Illya's queries. "Into the woods, just...just a ways beyond the treeline. You c'n come back for me after you get him to...to Waverly."

Illya sighs and nods. He turns his face down to the boy. " _Je te fais descendre,_ " he says.

The boy shakes his head, wrapping his arms tighter around Illya's neck and burying his head in his shoulder, making a sound of protest.

" _Un moment_ ," Illya says, prying the boy from him and setting him down on the ground. He wraps the blanket tighter around the child, who now looks like he's ready to cry. " _Un moment,_ " Illya repeats, and hurries to the other agent's side.

Napoleon looks up at him, the corners of his eyes crinkled in pain, and reaches up with the arm that isn't holding the bullet wound. Illya takes his hand.

"You ready?" he asks, and Napoleon nods. Illya pulls him to his feet, doing his best to ignore the grimace and barely-stifled cry. "Okay?"

Napoleon nods again, panting. He doesn't say anything, just breathes, and Illya knows that's a bad sign.

Napoleon's legs collapse beneath him after a few tentative steps into the woods, and Illya ends up half-dragging him the rest of the way, Napoleon making discontented noises the entire time (though Illya can't tell if it's because he doesn't like being helped or if it's from the pain). They finally stop next to a tree that's large enough to provide some cover from the road, should anyone come along looking for the child. Illya eases Napoleon slowly and carefully to the ground. The American is just conscious, lids parted slightly, eyes tracing listlessly back and forth. Illya's heart is pounding and he shakes his head as he kneels, then takes his partner's face in his hands. Napoleon blinks up at him.

" _Go._ "

"No. No. I cannot leave you. You're wounded and it's cold, and it is only going to get colder. To leave you here would be a death sentence."

"You've got 've...Illya, you don't have a choice." He shifts his gaze somewhere beyond Illya's shoulder. Illya turns. The boy is standing a few feet back, shivering in the blanket, snot running down his face. Illya turns back to the American.

"I'm going to pack the wound with snow, it will stop the bleeding," Illya says, scooping up a handful of the white fluff. Napoleon raises an eyebrow at him. Illya shrugs. "This is not the first time a partner has been wounded in the snow. Knowing you, it probably won't be the last." He presses the cold powder to Napoleon's side, hoping to whatever god is listening that he isn't about to freeze his closest friend to death

"Th-that's damn cold," Napoleon whispers with a grimace.

"I know," Illya answers. He looks over at the boy. " _Venez ici_."

The boy obeys, reluctantly shuffling forward. Illya reaches for the blanket and the boy shrinks away.

" _C'est froid_ ," he whimpers.

"I know it's cold," Illya says softly. " _Je vais te garder au chaud_." He tugs the blanket loose, then turns to Napoleon, draping the blanket over him and wrapping it tightly around his shoulders. "There. Now you stay alive, okay? Stay alive until I return. I won't be long."

Napoleon narrows his eyes. "I don't...an-answer to you, P-...Peril."

"You will if you do not do as I have said," Illya warns. He stands, with no small share of reluctance. "Please, Napoleon. I do not want to lose you."

_I can't lose you._

A small smile. "I'll be right...right h-here."

"You better be," lllya answers. He unzips his coat then turns back to the shivering child and picks him up. " _Bras autour de mon cou._ "

The child nods and obeys, wrapping his arms tightly around Illya's neck. Illya zips the coat back up, enveloping the child, before looping one arm around the boy. "I'll be back soon, Cowboy," he says.

"Course...course you will...Peril," Napoleon breathes.

Illya nods before heading back to the road, clutching the boy and not daring to look back, lest doing so should turn his partner into a pillar of salt and cause Illya to lose him forever.

xxx

Napoleon shivers under the blanket, his teeth chattering so intensely that he's sure anyone who happens on the road will hear the noise and come looking. The bleeding seems to have stopped, though, which is good. It would be better if he hadn't already lost so much of it, but he'll take what he can get.

He really hates the cold.

Cold does things to a person.

Looking out into the darkening woods, Napoleon can almost see them: three men, hands and faces black and purple with frostbite, naked bodies twisted in the snow. He remembers the day well. How at first he thought they'd been killed and stripped of their uniforms by the enemy, but they had no outward injuries. How it was another soldier, a kid from the Appalachians, that explained it to him. The cold played tricks on the mind, confused people until they were tearing their clothes off, completely unaware that they were only hastening their own demise. Napoleon's seen many things, things that he'll never forget, but nothing haunts him quite like those bodies in the trees outside Bastogne.

A sudden _snap_ pulls Napoleon from the memory, and he scrambles for his gun. His movements are slow and sloppy under the blanket, but he manages to get his left arm out from under it with his weapon drawn. He does a slow scan of his surroundings, staring out into the frigid darkness, the gun trembling in his hand as the shivering becomes more violent. He's beginning to think he'd imagined it when he hears it again-the unmistakable sound of a small branch breaking. He strains his eyes, struggling to spot whoever or whatever is out there with him.

He doesn't even notice his fingers curling against the cold until his gun goes off.

" _Fuck!_ " he whispers, dropping the weapon into the snow. He needs to move, needs to _hide_ , but his shaking limbs don't seem to want to obey. It takes every ounce of strength he has to make it to his feet, and even then he's bent at the middle, leaning against the tree for support.

The blanket, stiff with cold, lies useless on the ground.

He's catching his breath when he sees the light. He squints at it, fear lacing through him because there are really only two possibilities. Either he just gave away his position and one of the terrorists is on his way over, or Napoleon is so cold that he's hallucinating.

He's really not sure which is worse.

As he watches, the light starts to grow, ever so gradually, and he's starting to think it's real at the same time that he remembers he's dropped his gun into the snow. He knows that if he lowers himself to try and dig it out of the snow he won't make it back to his feet. His teeth are chattering so badly that he bites his tongue, and his mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood. He closes his eyes in frustration. He's so damned _tired_. And despite the numbness that's quickly overtaking his arms and legs, the bullet wound in his side hurts like hell. When he opens his eyes again, the light's even bigger and he can see its movement. Before long he'll see who's carrying it and after that, well…

Napoleon closes his eyes again and lets his body sink back into the snow.

xxx

"He was here," Illya says, and he's trying not to panic. He's not doing a very good job. "He was right here!"

"Are you sure?" one of the tactical guys asks, and Illya has to resist the urge to hit him.

"Yes, I am fucking sure," Illya all but growls, and the man takes a few steps back.

"Look, do you think it's possible he moved? Tried to find a more favorable position?" It's Enzo, the leader of the special ops team, that asks.

Illya eyes the little Italian before answering with a sinking heart. "No, I don't think so. He was...he was badly injured. If he did manage to move, he…" He scrubs a hand down his face. "He would not have made it far."

He startles everyone when he lets out a shout and punches the tree nearest him, hard enough to bust open his knuckles. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the cold bark, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths. He's allowed himself the outburst; he will not allow himself another.

"Agent Kuryakin," Enzo says, taking a step toward him.

"I should not have left him," Illya says.

"I think we have to face the possibility that Agent Solo is-"

"We would have found his body, no?" Illya interrupts. He doesn't even want to hear the words. He opens his eyes and turns around. "They must have taken him. The terrorists. Now that the boy is safe, we can storm their compound and get Solo back."

xxx


	3. Chapter 3

Three days ago, Illya and Napoleon saved the child.

Three days ago Illya left Napoleon to bleed alone in the snow.

Two days ago, they went back to get him and found nothing. The search had been called off just before dark, and they'd gone back to London the same night. Illya had talked to (yelled at) Waverly as soon as he'd set foot in headquarters. Waverly had calmly (frighteningly) reminded him who gave orders and sent Illya to get a good night's sleep. (He'd stared at the ceiling til morning.)

One day ago, Waverly came out of his office after an hours-long phone call looking livid and told Illya that he was doing what he could before muttering, " _Fucking politics,"_ and shutting himself in his office to make more phone calls.

Now, Illya is pacing in the foyer outside Waverly's door. There's a part of him-a large part of him-that wants to be shouting and throwing furniture and punching holes in walls. But that (as Solo is always quick to remind him) won't help anything and besides, when they go back for Napoleon he'll need his hands. So, he paces. One of the tactical guys whose name Illya never bothered to learn passes through, raising one hand in a small wave.

"When's the last time you slept?" he says, and Illya thinks it's an odd question to ask a stranger. He doesn't answer.

He doesn't even stop pacing.

"Well at least come grab a bite."

Illya's not really sure why this guy is pretending to care. He wants to ask him. All he says is, "I'm fine."

The man looks at him for a long moment, then shrugs. He says one more thing before he leaves, an obnoxious attempt at lightening the mood. "You keep that pacing up, you'll wear a bloody hole in the floor."

Barely a minute passes before the door to the office opens, and a weary-looking Waverly ushers Illya in before closing them in.

"Have a seat, Kuryakin," he says.

"I'd rather stand," Illya says, and is surprised when Waverly rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh.

"You'll make me dizzy with all your pacing and lord knows your knees could use a break. Sit."

Illya grits his teeth and sits down in the left-most chair. (Napoleon usually takes the right.) Waverly surprises him by leaning against the open chair, arms crossed over his chest.

"They think our little terrorist cell might be connected to the IRA, the first in a possible series of satellite groups planning on bringing the movement to the continent, and then to London. Since there are people on the inside, they planned on playing the long game, waiting to see what intel they could gather. They were more than a little reluctant to let us stomp around for an operative we aren't even sure is there…"

Illya feels his heart sink, even as he resolves to go back alone if he has to.

"...but I managed to persuade them."

Illya looks up at him sharply. "Really?"

Waverly nods. "Our agent on the inside has already been alerted to the situation and will be out of the compound before the attack." He stops talking, and Illya knows there's a _but_ coming.

"There is one condition, however," Waverly says a breath later, and his voice is suddenly stern.

"What is it?"

"You are to bring the leader, Daniel Byrne, back to London. Alive. Do you think you can manage that?"

"Yes," Illya says.

Waverly's eyes narrow just enough for Illya to notice. He takes a deep breath before he speaks. "Even if you don't find what you're looking for?"

Illya blinks. He hadn't even considered the fact that Napoleon might not be there. He shakes the thought from his mind.

"When do we leave?"

xxx

Illya sits in the cab of the first truck in the convoy, wedged between the driver and Enzo. His right leg bounces, getting faster the closer they get. Four days is a long time, and he has no idea what condition the cowboy will be in when they find him, and he's jammed in this tin can just _thinking_ about it-

"You should try to relax," Enzo says, interrupting his thoughts.

Illya grits his teeth. "I am relaxed."

Enzo sighs and mutters something in Italian that doesn't sound very flattering before putting a firm hand on Illya's knee.

Illya freezes, his heart beating faster as he stares straight ahead. "Get. Your hand. Off me. _Now_."

Enzo doesn't move except to turn and look at him. "Listen to me, Agent team is under my command which means that it's my responsibility. It also means that if this mission goes bad, it's my responsibility. If you let your emotions cloud your judgement, it doesn't just look bad for you. It looks bad for me, and it looks bad for Waverly. So I need you to calm down, focus, and approach this like you would approach any other op." He moves his hand and looks out the window as if nothing had happened.

Illya wants to yell at him or punch him or both, but he doesn't because he knows the man is right. It's not going to do anyone any good if he goes in there angry, hands shaking, unable to think or shoot straight. He takes a deep breath and holds it a second, then lets it out slowly, unclenching fists that he doesn't remember clenching and willing his leg to stay still. He takes another deep breath before he says, "How much longer?"

Enzo leans forward and looks at the driver. "Hunt?"

"We're about twenty miles out," Hunt answers.

Illya just hums in response. It's not long, but it feels like an eternity. His mind starts floating back to his partner, what they could be doing to him, what they've already done-

"Let's go over the plan," he says. If he's going to remain calm, he needs to think about something-anything-else.

Enzo looks a little surprised, but obliges. "We're going to take the last mile and a half by foot. Once there, teams Alpha and Beta will take the main compound. We'll go in while Beta watches the perimeter in case Byrne tries to run. Charlie and Delta will take the outbuildings, and Echo will watch the road, keeping any enemy vehicles from making it out. Our primary objective is to get Daniel Byrne out alive, and our secondary objective is to find Agent Solo. Any questions?"

Illya's fingers brush the weapon at his hip. "I know I can't kill Byrne, but can I shoot him?"

Hunt lets out a soft snort and Illya glares at him. Enzo, though, has been along on a few missions now and knows Illya enough to recognize that he isn't joking.

"I trust you know how to avoid anything vital. Or you could just do that Russian Kiss of Death."

Illya's eyes narrow. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says. No one is supposed to know about the Kiss. It's one of the KGB's best kept secrets.

At least, it _was._

He glances over at Enzo. "Who told you?"

"Who do you think?"

Illya rolls his eyes. He should have known Napoleon would be unable to keep it to himself. He'll give the cowboy an earful once they get him back. Because they _are_ going to get him back.

"Here," Enzo says, and the truck rolls to a stop. He looks at Illya as he opens the door. "This is it. The men know to come to you immediately if they find your partner."

"Good," Illya says as he follows the man out of the truck. His heart has picked up its hammering again, so hard it feels as if it's trying to pound its way out. As he draws his gun, though, his hands are steady. It's easier to be cool and objective once he's actually in the thick of it, when his mind is entirely focused on what he's doing and needs to do. It'll be mayhem soon, but for now, with the last of the men out of their vehicles, it's quiet. Besides the wind rustling the trees on either side of the road, the only sound is the soft footfall of boots in snow as they move toward the compound.

It's not long before he can see it, a dismal gray building that looks as cold as the snow. As they get closer, smaller dismal gray buildings can be seen. Napoleon is one of them, wounded and alone.

But not for long.

They reach the gate a few minutes later. It's tall and sturdy, and would be intimidating except that it's designed to keep out military vehicles. There's enough space on either side for a person to fit through comfortably, which means the tactical team can slip in quick and quiet.

"Alpha team, on me," Enzo says, and Illya and a dozen other men follow him at a running crouch.

They storm the doors on the count of three.

Chaos erupts the moment they open as the two guards inside shout for backup. There are three hallways branching off the entrance, one straight ahead and one to either side and at least a dozen men pour out the two rightmost halls, armed and shouting, and the fighting begins.

Enzo makes eye contact with Illya through the melee and points down the empty hall. Illya can't hear him, but it's clear what he's saying: _Go_. Illya nods and grabs the man in front of him by the back of the neck before hurling him headfirst into the wall. He falls bonelessly to the ground.

Illya steps over him and ducks down the hallway to his left. It's longer than he thinks, and the sounds of fighting fade away as he follows its long bend.

There's only one door at the very end of the hallway and somehow Illya knows Byrne is on the other side of it. He's not surprised to find that it's locked, but two good rams with his shoulder takes care of that and he bursts into the room. It's large, with most of the space being occupied by a long oval conference table. There's only one man there, his back to the door, and he scrambles to his feet as Illya enters. He turns and pulls a gun but Illya has already close the gap between them and easily twists the weapon from his grip.

" _Privet_ , Byrne," Illya growls. He grabs the Irishman by the front of his coat and slams him onto the table.

Byrne is clearly winded, but he grins up at Illya and a chuckle rises from his throat. "Have...have we met?"

Illya responds by driving a fist into his face. "Where is he?" he growls.

"Where's who?"

Illya hits him again. "Where is he?"

"I don't know who the hell you mean," Byrne answers, blood on his teeth.

Illya hits him again, and this time he feels the bastard's nose break under his hand. " _Where is he_?"

Byrne lets out a groan before answering. "Look, fella. You're gonna have to be more specific than that."

Shouting can be heard now, and Illya glances over his shoulder. Enemy combatants could be here at any second. He looks back at Byrne, pulling him up so their faces are only inches apart. "Where is Napoleon Solo?"

Recognition flickers in Byrne's eyes, and an unpleasant smile slowly creeps onto his face. "Oh. _Oh._ You mean the American." He gazes at Illya with that smile on his lips.

Illya can feel his hands beginning to shake, and he's not sure he can control it this time. "What did you do?" The question comes out as a harsh whisper.

Byrne runs his tongue over bloodied teeth and says, "I killed him."

Illya is hitting him before he even realizes he's doing it, one, two, three times. When he stops, his knuckles are split. When he speaks, his voice is trembling. "No." Byrne is lying. _He has to be._ "Where is he?"

"I…" Byrne's shoulders start shaking, and his words are garbled by blood and laughter. "I tortured him and I killed him and...and yesterday I burned his body!"

The roar that rips from Illya's throat is animalistic in its fury, and his fists...his fists pummel the man on the table until the man falls silent, and then they keep going. They feel skin break and bone shatter and they don't stop.

" _Agent Kuryakin!"_

He can barely hear the words over the sound of his own frenzied heartbeat. He pays them no heed.

" _Agent Kuryakin, we need him alive!"_

He's started now, and he's not going to stop. He's not going to stop until there's nothing left.

" _Agent, that's enough."_ It's a different voice, a calmer voice, that speaks now. It's just as easy to ignore.

It's the sound that follows the words that finally cuts through the rage enough for Illya to take notice.

It's the cold _click_ of a gun being cocked.

He stops, one bloodied hand frozen in the air, and turns to see who's on the other end of the weapon. He doesn't recognize the young man at first, but when he does he feels his jaw tighten.

" _You_ ," he snarls. It's the man he'd seen outside Waverly's office the day before, only his face isn't so friendly now. "Did he send you to spy on me?"

"You know we need him alive," the man answers, and Illya's face darkens.

"Do you know what this _yobanaya suka_ did?"

"It doesn't matter what he did. We need him alive."

Illya straightens up and takes a step forward. His voice gets louder with each word as he speaks."He tortured him. He _burned_ him!" Another step forward and the gun is against his shoulder. He looks down at the man. His voice gets low and dangerous. "What, are you going to shoot me?"

The man looks back up at him, his jaw working. "Yes," he finally says.

Illya stares at him. "Then point somewhere it counts."

The man is about to answer when Enzo pushes his way, panting, through the gathered soldiers. "Kurya- _Che due palle!_ Williams, lower your weapon!"

Williams doesn't move, doesn't break eye contact with Illya. "I had to stop him from killing Byrne. I might be too late."

Enzo shoots a poisonous look at Illya before turning to the man next to him. "Go see if Byrne is alive."

The man nods and squeezes his way into the room, mumbling an apology to Illya as he steps around him. A few seconds later, he says, "He's in bad shape, but he's alive."

Williams's stance relaxes just enough to be noticed and he lowers his gun. Illya gives him one last look before pushing past him, storming into the hall. Someone grabs his shoulder and he wheels around, ready for a fight.

"Hey! Easy," Enzo says, putting his hands up. "I don't want to fight you, Kuryakin." There's something in his expression that Illya doesn't like.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Bravo found something," Enzo says. He won't meet Illya's eyes.

They make their way through the halls and out into the cold, crossing the snowy grounds until they reach a small outbuilding at the corner of the compound. The door is open and there are some men lingering just outside. They all look up and he can see it in their faces, in the way their eyes meet his for only a second before shifting to their shoes. Illya is afraid he knows what's in the building, and his feet suddenly feel as if they're cased in cement. Every step forward is a struggle. He wants to turn back, because there's a part of him that thinks if he doesn't see it, then maybe it didn't happen. Almost against his will, he starts to pray under his breath, the prayer his mother used to whisper to him when he was young.

" _Nash otets, kotoryy na nebesakh osvyashchen, budet vashim imenem…"_

He steps into the building and the words catch in his throat, and he knows.

No one heard his prayer.

He recognizes the smell before he's able to identify the twisted black shape on the cold cement. He barely looks at it before fleeing, lurching out of the building. He stumbles and falls forward, his knees hitting the ground hard as he struggles to catch his breath. He doesn't feel the cold wet of the snow soaking through the knees of his pants. He doesn't feel the cold flakes that start falling, kissing his neck and sticking to his hair. He doesn't feel the hands that pull him to his feet and drag him away from the nightmare.

He doesn't feel anything until he's back in London, standing before the familiar oak door.

And then he does.

xxx

Waverly sits behind his desk, staring intently at nothing as he waits for the men to return. He's surprised at the sadness that's eating away at him. The guilt. He's lost men before, good men, family men. Soldiers, agents, civilians. But this...It's different, somehow, with Solo. More personal. It doesn't just feel like a casualty. It feels like a loss.

Like a failure.

Instead of the usual compartmentalizing, Waverly's thoughts run in circles, a hundred scenarios of what he could have done differently playing on repeat in his mind. For the first time in years, he's sorely tempted to return to his old habits. A needle in the arm to make him forget, at least for a few hours. Enough drinks will do the same.

He sighs, reaching into his jacket for something that will hopefully take the edge off. His fingers brush the box of smokes in his pocket before he changes his mind, opening one of his desk drawers instead. He rifles around until he finds the small box that contains his tobacco and rolling papers. He finds that rolling his own fags can be quite relaxing and he takes his time, concentrating on the task before him. A few minutes later, and he's got a perfect cigarette. He places one end in his mouth and reaches for his lighter. It takes a few tries, the infernal thing, but it eventually gets the job done and he takes a grateful drag, closing his eyes and leaning back as far as his chair will let him.

There's a knock on the door and Waverly opens his eyes. "Yes?"

It opens slightly, and a blonde head peers around it.

"Er, yes, Cynthia? What is it?"

"You wanted me to tell you when they arrived, sir," the secretary says.

"Oh, yes, thank you," he says, straightening up.

She nods, and the door closes again. Waverly stands slowly and walks around the oak desk. He takes one last drag before putting his cigarette out, and then he waits. Barely a minute passes before the door bursts open and Kuryakin storms in, slamming the door shut behind him. Waverly scarcely has time to react before the Russian grabs him by the lapels and pushes him against the nearest wall.

"You sent someone to fucking _spy_ on me?" he snarls, and he's angrier than Waverly has ever seen him.

Under ordinary circumstances, Waverly would remind him of his place using carefully worded threats and kindly ask him to take a step back. But these aren't ordinary circumstances, and though he's admittedly frightened (he'd be a fool not to be), he takes a deep breath and nods.

"I did, yes, because I knew what you might find there and I knew how you would react."

Illya looks down at the floor, his fists tightening.

"Kuryakin," Waverly says. He's not sure what his plan is, but he needs to get his agent's attention.

Illya doesn't respond. His breathing has grown fast and heavy, his chest heaving.

"Kuryakin." He says it a little louder this time, but the Russian doesn't seem to've even heard. The door cracks open and Waverly looks over to see Williams. He makes eye contact with the man and shakes his head, just slightly. It's enough to send him away, and Waverly returns his focus to the agent before him.

"Illya," he says, and the man stiffens. "Illya, I want you to look at me."

Slowly, Illya lifts his head. His expression is angry, but his eyes-guilty and hurting and _shattered_ -his eyes are like looking in a mirror.

Waverly is surprised to find a lump in his throat, and he does his best to swallow it before he speaks. "I'm sorry."

The agent's grip on him loosens and he looks confused. "What?" It's barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry," Waverly says again, and Kuryakin gradually releases his hold, his arms falling to his sides.

Any trace of anger has left the Russian's face, and he seems...lost. For the first time since Waverly's known him, there's pain visible in his features. He opens his mouth, but quickly closes it again, clearly struggling to find words.

"I think your hand might be broken," Waverly says, breaking the silence. He really does think so, but he's also providing Kuryakin the chance to escape.

"I...I should go to the infirmary and have it looked at," Kuryakin responds after a moment.

Waverly nods. "I think that would be wise."

He watches Kuyakin leave and thinks it's strange, how all it had taken to cut through the man's anger was two words, spoken sincerely.

He sits back down at his desk, retrieves his wooden box from the drawer, and rolls cigarettes until he runs out of tobacco.

xxx

Gaby almost smiles at the rainfall as she makes the short walk from the cab to headquarters. Nothing quite like eight days in the hot, muggy, miserable weather of Egypt to make one appreciate the cold, rainy, miserable weather of London.

"Is he in his office?" she asks as she enters the building.

Cynthia looks up at her. "Oh! Yes, but-"

"Thank you," Gaby interrupts, setting her suitcase down and heading to Waverly's office. She doesn't bother knocking (she never does), instead bursting in and kicking the door shut behind her.

"Men are pigs," she announces, flopping down in the chair across from Waverly. She starts digging around in her coat. "That being said...I got what you asked for. And more." She pulls the small leatherbound book from her inside pocket with a look of triumph and drops it on the desk. "His ledger. It has everything-buyers, suppliers, even the calendar he uses to-and this goes back to my earlier statement-keep his _many_ mistresses straight. There's something else, too, but I don't know what. It's in code, but I'm sure it's not anything Solo can't handle." She leans back with a smug grin.

It vanishes when she notices the look on Waverly's face.

"...What?" she says.

Waverly takes a deep breath and folds his hands in front of him on the desk. "Something's happened."

xxx


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the fic, please PLEASE drop a review! Thanks, y'all!

_xxx 3 days ago_

Bastien looks up at the darkening sky and sighs, taking a step forward. His boot finds a branch, and its crack sends birds flying. He shakes his head at himself. It was stupid of him to come out hunting this late, and he has no doubt that he's going to make the long trek home empty-handed. At least he had the foresight to bring a lantern with him. He feels around in his coat pocket and brings out his tiny matchbox. He pulls one out. It takes him a few tries to light it, and he smiles when the tiny flame finally appears.

He's about to light his lamp when a shot rings out, startling him and making him drop the match in the snow. He swears and gets another one out. Before he lights it, though, he takes a moment to just stand and listen. It's hard to tell, but the shot hadn't sounded far off. He doesn't know of anyone else hunting in these woods, but if someone had just shot something they may need help getting it prepared and hauled before the night turns completely black.

Bastien sighs again and lights another match, then his lantern. _You must be out of your mind,_ he thinks as he walks further from home and toward the sound of the gunshot instead. He hasn't been trekking through the snow very long, but the sky is already taking on an inkiness that worries him. No stars means clouds, and clouds mean snowfall. He can almost taste it in the air and he knows he should turn back, but something stops him from doing so. He hasn't seen or heard anything since the gunshot, and he knows whoever had fired the round is probably in trouble.

He comes across the man so suddenly that it startles him, but any fear is erased very quickly as he realizes that the figure huddled in the snow doesn't pose a threat. The man is younger than Bastien and well groomed, and doesn't look at all like a hunter. Looking closer, Bastien can see that the man is shivering-a good sign, because it means his body hasn't given up yet against the cold. But it still could, and the temperature is only going to drop.

He sets his lantern on the ground, carefully so that it settles on top of the snow rather than sinking into it, and closes the small distance between himself and the man, then bends down. It's been awhile, but he still remembers how to carry a person. He hooks his elbows under the man's armpits and stands slowly, grunting under his weight. By the time the man is on his shoulders, Bastien is breathing heavily. His eyes fall to where the man had lain, and his heart jumps.

There's blood on the snow.

The man must be injured, then, which means he's in even more danger than Bastien originally thought. It won't be easy getting home. It's a long walk, made longer by the dark and the man on his back, and he's grateful for his hunting experience and familiarity with the woods. It's hard at first, but adrenaline kicks in as the instinct to keep another of his species alive takes over. Even so, it's not long before he begins to tire, and he's forced to stop and rest twice on the way (though he doesn't dare put the man down for fear that he won't be able to pick him up again).

When he finally reaches his cabin, he's gasping and sweaty as he all but stumbles up the steps. Once he's inside, he puts the man down as gently as he can manage and immediately stokes the fire. It roars to life, providing enough light for Bastien to get to work helping the stranger. He goes to his bedroom first, opening a drawer and grabbing bandages and sulfa powder, then pulls all the blankets from his bed. He dumps everything onto the floor, then sets about the task of getting the man out of his sopping wet clothes, starting with his fancy boots and working his way up until the man is stripped down to his skivvies.

With his chest bare, the man's injury is apparent-a gunshot wound to his side that, luckily, seems to not be bleeding. Bastien lights a lantern to take a closer look, rolling the man part-way to check for an exit , there appears to be one, and he's not losing blood there either. Bastien figures it must be due to the man's low body temperature, which means that once he warms up he'll be at risk of bleeding again. Bastien grabs the sulfa powder first, pouring it on both wounds to help avoid infection before bandaging them up.

Once the wounds have been tended to, Bastien wastes no time tucking blankets around the man. His shivering has decreased dramatically and his lips have taken on a bluish hue, and Bastien needs to get his body temperature up. He goes to a hall closet, pulls out some furs he's recently tanned and maneuvers them under the man's body to insulate him from the cold floor, then make sure the man is cocooned well to keep his body heat from escaping.

The only thing left to do now is wait. Bastien tries to settle into his chair to read, but the man needs close monitoring, and Bastien finds himself checking his breathing and pulse every few minutes. He's treated hypothermia before, but he's not sure how the injury will affect the man's body's ability to warm itself up. Blood loss and shock could very well make things more complicated, and Bastien is worried that without constant vigilance, the man might just slip away. After a few hours, however, the man's condition has improved dramatically. His teeth are chattering and his skin is still slightly cool to the touch, but his lips are no longer blue and he's stopped shivering. He seems to be stable, so Bastien feels comfortable leaving him alone for a short time.

He builds a fire in his little wood-burning stove and gets a kettle of water on to boil before making a simple broth and setting it on the stovetop to heat up.

Bastien is putting tea on the stove when he hears it.

"Illya?"

Bastien frowns and walks back into the front room. The man is awake, though perhaps not entirely lucid, looking around the room with furrowed brow.

"Illya?" he says again, his voice low and scratchy.

Bastien steps closer to where the stranger is name sounds Russian. Bastien doesn't speak it fluently, but he's picked up a few phrases here and there.

" _Ty...ty govor...govorish' po-frantsuzki_? _Ty govorish' po-francuzski_?" He hopes he just asked the man whether he speaks French.

The man doesn't answer, so Bastien goes back to the stove, where the broth is already hot. He dips some into a bowl and grabs a spoon and heads back to the man's side, sitting down near his head. His eyes are slightly open, his Adam's apple bobbing as though he's trying to say something.

"Ssh," Bastien says, setting the bowl next to him. He cradles the man's head with one hand, propping him up so that he'll be able to swallow more easily, and spoons soup into his mouth with the other, relieved when the man swallows it. He doesn't quite manage to finish the bowl, but for now it's enough. The man falls asleep moments later for some much needed rest.

Bastien walks over to his chair and settles in. It's going to be a long night.

xxx

Bastien is getting ready to make breakfast when he realizes he's run out of wood for the stove.

" _Scheisse_ ," he mutters. It's cold out, and it's been snowing off and on all morning, and he doesn't particularly feel like going out in it. But he also doesn't feel like having a cold breakfast, and even if he did he has a guest. He quickly checks on the stranger, who's sleeping soundly, before grabbing his coat, hat, and gloves. He's bundled up by the time he gets to the door (though it still takes him a few moments to steel himself before he leaves the house).

He's lucky enough to go out during a break in the snow, and he doesn't waste any time, in case it starts up again. Wielding the axe is hard work. It warms him up quickly and, as is often the case, he finds himself wishing he hadn't put on so damn many layers. He splits four logs and gathers up the pieces. It's a big armload, but nothing he hasn't carried before. The snow is just starting up again when he goes inside, dumping the wood in a pile. He'll stack it later, after he's eaten. He put a few of the pieces into the stove before he takes off his gloves and grabs the matchbox he keeps in the kitchen. He opens it and sighs, silently cursing its emptiness. He'll have to get one from the box above the fireplace, then. He gets to the living room and freezes.

The man is standing in a far corner of the room, bent over in the middle. One hand is clutching a blanket, his arm curled around his injured side, while the other hand brandishes the large hunting knife Bastien keeps on the mantle. His hand is shaking and he looks like a slight breeze could knock him over, but his expression is determined, and the look in his eyes holds danger.

" _Sprichst du Deutsch_?" Bastien speaks slowly, holding his hands up to show he's unarmed. " _Nederlands_? English?"

"All of the above," the man says, and Bastien feels himself frown. He can't quite place the man's accent, not until he speaks again.

"Who the fuck are you?"

xxx

"I said, _who the fuck are you_?" Napoleon all but snarls it, and he thinks he's done quite a good job of sounding as unpleasant as he feels. He's fairly certain that he looks pathetic, given that he's wounded and in nothing but his underwear with only a blanket preserving some small shred of dignity, so he has to sound as fierce as possible.

The man, who's standing in the doorway with his hands raised, doesn't look intimidated. If anything he looks confused. Curious, even.

"You...You are American?" the man asks. He's tall-taller even than Illya-and well-built. Definitely the kind of man a group of terrorists would want on their side. But he doesn't sound like them and he sure as hell doesn't look like them. He doesn't look ready to kill.

That doesn't mean he's not one of them.

Napoleon lifts the knife a little higher and takes a small step forward.

" _Who are you?_ "

"My name is Bastien. I found you in the woods...You look cold. I'll make some tea."

"I'm more of a coffee person," Napoleon says, narrowing his eyes. It's only partly in suspicion. Mostly it's because the bullet hole in his side is really starting to smart. "Why did you bring me here?"

Bastien blinks, lowering his arms slightly. "I'm sorry?"

"What do you want from me?" Napoleon asks. "Information? Money?"

Much to Napoleon's dismay, one corner of Bastien's mouth lifts up in a half-smile that's surprisingly warm. "What? No. No, I don't know you from a- _wat is het_ -" He gestures with both hands. "A...hole in the dirt! I saw you out there, freezing, and I could not let you die. I do not want anything from you."

Napoleon studies the man head to toe. With his thick flannel and beat-up boots and untamed beard, Bastien does look like someone who lives alone in the woods rather than a greedy, gun-happy bastard who would kidnap a child (or a dashingly handsome stranger) for the money.

"Alright," Napoleon says slowly, lowering the knife and letting it clatter to the floor. "I believe you." No sooner does he say it than the pain in his side reaches a sudden crescendo, and he lets out a cry, dropping the blanket and clutching at the bullet hole. Bastien hurries forward, putting a hand on Napoleon's shoulder and bending down to peer at his side. He sucks some air between his teeth.

"You're bleeding again," he says, looking up at Napoleon with raised eyebrows. "You need rest. Come, sit."

Napoleon lets the large man guide him to an open chair, and almost immediately Bastien is tucking blankets around his shoulders.

"We will talk in a moment. But first, tea," Bastien says before walking into another part of the house that Napoleon can't quite see. He's back a second later, an embarrassed look on his face as he grabs a small box from the mantle and gives it a little shake. "Matches."

Napoleon takes in his surroundings as Bastien busies himself with the tea. The cabin is well built and sturdy, and a lot of the furnishings seem to be handmade. While there are some lamps placed strategically around the room, there's not a lightbulb to be seen, so it's safe to say there's no electricity. Natural light floods through two windows behind Napoleon, and the fireplace contributes an orange glow that gives the room a comfortable hominess.

The whistle of the tea kettle makes Napoleon jump, and a few seconds later Bastien appears with two steaming cups in hand. He holds one out to Napoleon.

"Drink this," he says.

Napoleon wrinkles his nose as he works one hand out from beneath the pile of blankets. "I don't like tea," he mutters.

Bastien responds by pushing a cup into his hand. "It's chamomile. It's good for you. Drink it."

Napoleon sighs. The man is probably right. He sips at the tea and tries not to grimace at the potpourri-like taste. It's on his second sip that his thumb grazes his chin and he almost drops his cup. He scrambles to free his other hand and immediately touches his face, feeling both cheeks and his chin with growing urgency.

"How long have I been here?" he asks.

Bastien sets his tea on the little table beside him and sits forward, clasping his hands in front of him. "Three days."

"Three-" Napoleon's heart pounds as he tries to stand, only to get caught up in the mound of blankets. "Three days? Where are my clothes?" he says as he tries to disentangle himself. He only entraps himself further, and ends up falling flat on his back. It knocks the wind out of him, and the pain radiating from the bullet wound becomes practically unbearable. He must black out for a moment, because when he opens his eyes Bastien is hovering over him looking worried.

"I'm sorry, but you can't possibly leave now," he says. "In your state? You would be dead before you even reached the road. Stay there, I'll be back in a moment."

Napoleon doesn't argue as he closes his eyes and tries to breathe through the pain. He doesn't think he could stand right now even if he wanted to. Even opening his eyes seems like a huge task, not because he's tired but because he's pretty sure that opening them will, like a butterfly fluttering its wings, start a chain reaction that makes the pain even worse. He hears Bastien return a moment later.

"Hey," the man says, and Napoleon feels two fingers against his neck. He frowns and raises one hand.

"I'm awake," he says, prying his eyelids apart with (surprisingly) no ill effect.

A corner of Bastien's mouth lifts up in an almost-smile. "I'm going to change your dressings," he says, and looks up at Napoleon. "What's your name?"

"Solo."

"Solo," Bastien repeats as he starts to remove the bandages. Napoleon winces, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Hopefully some conversation will distract him.

"Where'd you learn to do all this?" he asks.

"I was studying medicine before the war. What I didn't have the chance to learn there I learned on the battlefield as a medic," Bastien says as he starts cleaning the wound. "You're very fortunate, you know. The cold could have killed you, but it saved you instead. It stopped you from bleeding to death."

Napoleon thinks back to Illya packing snow against the wound. He'll have to remember to thank him for that.

"Did you fight?" Bastien asks, pulling him from his thoughts.

"At the end, yes," Napoleon answers.

Bastien nods, then looks at him for a long moment. "You must have been practically a child," he finally says. "What about after?"

Napoleon is quiet for a moment to think of his answer. "I stayed in Europe...selling art. And you?"

Bastien presses a bandage down on his wound, eliciting a low moan, before making a broad gesture with one arm. "I decided to live alone in the woods, like Thoreau. Thw war showed me enough of mankind for one lifetime." He furrows his brow in concentration. "And…done. Now for the exit wound."

"Exit wound?" Napoleon repeats. The pain is so omnipresent he hadn't even realized there was one.

"Lucky for you, yes. You're going to have to turn on your side for me."

Napoleon grimaces at the thought. "You know Bastien, I'm going to be honest with you here. I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

"Mmhm. And...infection, blood-poisoning, sepsis, and death. Do you like the sound of that?"

The grimace turns into a scowl. Napoleon sees his point, though. "I can't say that I do," he says, then adds, somewhat reluctantly, "I may need your help."

Bastien responds by putting one hand on Napoleon's shoulder and the other on his hip. "Try and stay relaxed. Are you ready?"

Napoleon nods. "Count of three?"

"Okay. _Eins, zwei, drei_!"

Napoleon leverages himself with his arm at the same time Bastien pushes, and a cry rips from him as his abdominal muscles tighten painfully.

"Are you okay?" Bastien's voice seems far away as Napoleon lets out a long groan. "Solo, are you alright?"

"Uh huh," Napoleon manages between gasps. It seems he's in worse shape than he'd initially thought. He realizes with a sinking feeling that he's going to be out of commission for a while. He lifts his head and turns toward Bastien. "I don't suppose you know how long-"

"How long until you can leave?"

Napoleon lets his head fall back to the ground. "Yeah."

The man is quiet as he puts fresh bandages on the second wound. When he finally speaks, he sounds apologetic. "The nearest town is a full day's walk, even longer when the weather is bad, and that is for a healthy man, and you...You are very badly injured. I can take you there when you're ready, but…" He looks at the expression on Napoleon's face and sighs. "It will take weeks to heal."

 _Weeks_. Napoleon is speechless. His only chance of getting back to London any sooner is his team finding him out here. But he knows how these things go. The odds of them finding grow smaller with each passing second.

It won't be long before they give up on him altogether.

xxx


	5. Chapter 5

xxx _Now_

Gaby walks into the sitting room with a bottle of gin she snuck from Waverly's office in one hand and a pair of drinking glasses in the other, determined to drown her misery, if only for a few hours. And then she'll get a massive hangover, which is a whole different kind of misery but she'll gladly take it over the aching emptiness she's feeling now.

Illya gives her a quick glance as she enters and says, "Pajamas?"

"Yes. And?"

"It's two in the afternoon."

Gaby sighs, settling into the armchair nearest the Russian. "I couldn't bear to be in that horrible black dress a second longer."

He just hums in response. His attention is focused on the chessboard before him, which wouldn't be unusual except that he's been staring at it for hours at a time every day since Gaby returned from Egypt.

That, and the pieces haven't moved.

"It was itchy and hot, and black makes me look tired," she continues, hoping for some sort of response. She's disappointed when he only grunts. He's still in the suit he wore to the service. He hasn't even loosened his tie.

Apparently he'd returned to his spot in front of the game as soon as they'd gotten back.

She watches him for what feels like an eternity, but still he doesn't move. He just sits there and stares with his lips pursed and his hands steepled in front of him, his brow slightly furrowed.

"What are you doing?" she finally asks.

"I…" He stops and takes a deep breath, his shoulders sagging as he looks over at Gaby with an almost guilty expression. "I am trying to figure out his next move." He points to one of the white pieces. "See? Look where he moved the rook. Why did he do that?"

Gaby watches the Russian as his gaze shifts around the board between pieces and squares. There are dark circles under his eyes and it looks like he hasn't slept since what happened. In fact, Gaby is fairly certain he hasn't done much of anything aside from sitting in his room or staring at the chessboard.

"There's no way of knowing," she finally says, and Illya looks up. Gaby continues. "You know how he was. Stubborn. Arrogant. Reckless, mostly just to see what reaction he could get."

"He was an asshole," Illya says, and they both laugh the kind of laugh that comes out when the only other alternative is to cry.

Gaby hops off the chair and stands in front of Illya, proudly holding up the bottle. "I borrowed this," she says. Illya eyes it for a second before reaching for it, but Gaby pulls it out of his grasp before he can take it. "But first, when's the last time you ate?"

Illya's forehead creases, his mood flipping in an instant. He glares up at her from under his eyebrows, open hand still hovering in the air where the bottle had been. "Why does that matter?"

Gaby studies him for a moment. He looks angry, obviously, and sad. But mostly he looks tired. As much as she wants to drink right now, Illya is definitely in no condition to join her, and she doesn't really feel like doing it alone.

"I don't want you to poison yourself," she says. "You shouldn't drink on an empty stomach. Food first."

Illya stiffens, his shoulders straightening and becoming rigid, his jaw tightening. He turns back to the chessboard, almost robotic in his movement. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not fine. When's the last time you ate, or slept?"

"You are not my mother," Illya all but growls.

Gaby puts the bottle down and crosses her arms over her chest. She looks at him with an expression that, as Napoleon says (said) suggests she's "ready to break some bone".

"No, I'm just your friend. Now you're going to eat something or else I will make you, even if I have to chew it myself first and shove it down your throat."

The frown on Illya's face softens, just a little, and he looks up from the chess board. "They teach you that east of the Wall?"

"They taught me a great many things east of the Wall, any of which I would be happy to demonstrate if you don't get up right now."

She holds out a hand and is satisfied, if somewhat surprised, when Illya takes it with a sigh. She moves a few steps back, pulling on his arm, and though he doesn't do it with his usual half-smile, he pretends that she's helping him as he gets to his feet.

"I don't feel like going out," he says as they make their way out of the common area.

"We could go to the mess hall," she says. "I'm sure they've got something decent. Or at the very least edible."

They've never actually been to the mess hall-the little team has a shared kitchen, tucked in the back corner of the massive headquarters with their rooms. But it was Napoleon who always did the cooking.

Illya doesn't look too pleased at the idea of going to the cafeteria, but doesn't offer any alternative, so Gaby takes that as agreement. She wraps her arm around Illya's and leans her head against the Russian's bicep, and together they walk.

As they get to the other side of headquarters, where the offices and interrogation rooms are, they start to encounter more and more people. She tries to ignore the glances that come their way, and she's certain Illya is doing the same. All the employees in the building know about the funeral, even if they don't know what actually happened. They know Napoleon is gone and that's enough for everyone to give the agents a wide berth, as well as an overabundance of sympathetic looks.

There are only a few people in the cafeteria-it's early for lunch-but there are enough that it's noticeable when the chatter dies down as Gaby and Illya enter.

" _Ya nenavizhu eto_ ," Illya murmurs in Russian as he grabs a tray. _I hate this._

" _Ya tozhe_ ," Gaby agrees quietly.

The chatter slowly picks up again as they get their food, much to Gaby's relief. Once they've got their food, Gaby leads them to a table in the back, away from prying eyes.

"Is that all you're going to eat?" Gaby says as she sits, facing the door so that Illya doesn't have to spend the entirety of their lunch avoiding eye contact with people.

"What?" Illya says, sitting across from her. "You want me to eat. I am eating."

"You have an apple and four bites of mashed potatoes."

"Is at least six bites," Illya grumbles, pushing his fork around the small mound of potato.

"You need protein."

Illya pauses mid-stir. "Shut up and eat so we can get to gin."

Gaby responds by taking a big bite of stroganoff that instantly makes her crave Napoleon's cooking. Illya picks up some mash on his fork and stares it a second before putting it in his mouth. He doesn't make a face, but Gaby can tell that, like her, it's because he's trying very hard not to. Normally they'd poke fun at each other, but instead they're just...sad. They eat silently, which wasn't what Gaby was envisioning when she had this idea but at least Illya is eating something.

They've been there a few minutes when a group of three men walk in. Gaby eyes them as they go through the line, silently willing them to sit anywhere except for the open tables near her and Illya. It doesn't work, because they sit at the table directly behind him.

" _Hurensohn,_ " she swears under her breath. But none of them seem to recognize her or the back of Illya's head, because they just keep talking to each other as if everything is normal.

Gaby is content to ignore them back.

And then one of them says, around a bite of mouthful of food, "Hard to believe about that Irish Bastard, eh?"

And then another one responds, in an American accent, "What, Byrne?"

Gaby watches the anger ripple over Illya, his whole body tensing up, his jaw tightening, eyes going wide and dark, hands tightening into fists.

"Illya," she whispers.

His knuckles are white.

"You're not really surprised, are you?" the American continues. "It came straight from the top. Even our man Waverly didn't have a say."

"That's for damn sure," the third man says. "He'd've never let him get away with it, what he did to that agent..."

Gaby has been watching Illya with growing concern-it's obvious he's about to explode. She reaches her hand toward his. "Ill-"

The first man speaks again, his voice hushed but not hushed enough. "I heard they burned him alive. Was barely even a body for them to find-"

Illya stands suddenly from the table, his chair scraping loudly in the linoleum. Gaby stands, too, and the men look up, startled. One of them swears.

"That's them." The third man.

"Yeah, no shit." The American. He raises his voice a little and starts to rise from his seat. "Look, Agent Kuryakin, I'm sorry-"

Illya drops his fork and it hits his metal tray with a loud clatter. His hands are trembling and he's breathing heavily, visibly so. He turns to face the table behind him and Gaby quickly moves forward, putting herself between the group of idiots and the giant Russian that looks like he wants to rip their heads off.

"Illya," she says. There's no response, no indication that he's heard her. She raises her voice a little, reaching up with one hand. "Hey."

Her fingers barely brush his chest before his hand darts up and grabs her wrist, hard. He doesn't even look at her, just pushes past her and storms away.

" _Hey_!" she repeats, angrily this time. One of the idiot men says something to her, but she doesn't hear what-she's already following Illya. She has to jog to keep up, trailing at his heels.

He doesn't answer, just charges through the halls.

"Illya!" Gaby cries as soon as they're out of earshot of the other agents. "What the hell was that? Stop it!"

She follows him all the way back to the sitting room, where he snatches up the bottle of gin before taking it into his room, where he promptly slams the door in her face and locks it with a loud _click_.

"Illya!" Gaby shouts, balling up her fists and pounding on the door. "Illya, goddamn you!"

He's taken her gin, and now he's going to drink it locked up in his room. He's going to drink it and leave Gaby alone with her grief. She keeps pounding, keeps shouting, far after she realizes he won't answer, until she's out of breath and her arms are burning. She hits the door one more half-hearted time.

"Selfish bastard," she says, voice raw. She repeats it in Russian for good measure. " _Egoistic nyy ublyudok_!"

She could pick the lock if she wanted to-Napoleon had taught her how-but she doesn't want to. Illya is a stubborn, hard headed fool who's made it very clear that he doesn't care about anyone's feelings but his own and that he doesn't need anyone's help. And Gaby is done trying.

She walks across the hall to her room, rubbing at the bruise forming on her wrist, and slams the door as loud as she can, locking it behind her. There's a bottle of rum somewhere in the room, she just has to remember...She's on the floor in a second, reaching under the bed until her fingers brush the glass. She grabs it and pulls it out, uncorking the bottle and taking a swig before sitting on her bed.

There, she pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arm-the one that isn't holding the bottle-around her legs. And for the first time since she found out, she cries.

xxx


	6. Chapter 6

It's been seven days since the op, four since Napoleon woke up on Bastien's floor, and he's starting to become a little stir-crazy. It doesn't help that Bastien spends a good deal of time out hunting or chopping firewood, leaving Napoleon alone for hours at a time. These last couple days he's taken to slowly pacing in the front room, when he can summon the energy. It gets the blood in his legs flowing and lets him get in some much-needed stretching, but it also tires him out after just a few minutes, and he inevitably ends up collapsed in a chair (if he's lucky, on the floor if he's not), panting and frustrating and aching.

When he's not doing that, he spends most of his time sleeping.

He fucking hates it.

On the one hand, it passes the time, but on the other there's a sense of helplessness that comes with it. Powerlessness. It's something he hasn't experienced since he was first snapped up by the CIA, before he started finding little ways to alleviate the feeling. He doesn't have anything like that, now. He's worried it may drive him crazy. Luckily, he has an idea which may alleviate some of the boredom. He just has to ask his host about it.

In the meantime, he looks around the room, taking in the details. He wants to tell Gaby and Illya about this place when he gets back, and he doesn't want to leave anything out-Like how many logs there are from floor to ceiling (fifteen) or how there's one white stone nestled among the gray ones that make up the fireplace, or how the whole house smells like pitch, or how sometimes the firelight will hit the bear skin rug on the floor just right and will make the fur look like it's moving. But he quickly tires of the game; he's played it a dozen or more times now and already has the small living space all but memorized.

He's picking at the food Bastien left for him (a small bowl of venison stew that's long since cooled and a few pieces of hardtack) when the door opens, bringing with it an icy breeze and a flurry of snowflakes, and Bastien. As wide as the door and nearly as tall, bundled head to toe with a fur hat on his head and a hunting rifle in his hand, he's an intimidating figure. Or, he would be if he didn't have the demeanor of a teddy bear.

He sets his gun down next to the door and turns to face Napoleon, pulling his scarf down from around his face to reveal a big grin.

" _Halo_ ," he greets. " _Alles klar_?"

"Any luck out there?" Napoleon says, ignoring the question because obviously _all is not fine_.

"I got a few rabbits. They're hanging now. How are you feeling?" He points at the bowl of uneaten food. "You have not eaten much. Do you feel feverish, nausea?"

"I'm fine," Napoleon says, frowning when Bastien steps forward and presses a hand to his forehead anyway.

"No fever," Bastien mutters, more to himself than Napoleon. He looks up at him. "That's good. Probably no infection. I'll have to check your wounds to be sure. But you should eat first. Would you like me to heat that up for you?"

"Uh…" Napoleon doesn't like to be fussy about anything other than his clothes. It's humiliating. But if he's being honest, his dignity is largely gone at this point anyway. "Yes, please. Thank you."

Bastien stokes the fire and then picks up Napoleon's bowl and heads to the kitchen.

"Bastien?" Napoleon says as the larger man cuts kindling for the stove.

"Hm?"

"Have you got any books? I'm spending more time awake these days and would appreciate something to occupy a bit of my time, and to keep my mind sharp."

Bastien lets out a chuckle as he throws the kindling into the stove and lights it. "Your mind seems plenty sharp to me, _Herr_ Solo. But yes, I have some books tucked away. You enjoy reading?"

"I do."

Bastien closes the stove, then pours Napoleon's stew into a pot and puts it on the stovetop. Then he leans against the wall opposite to wait for it to warm through. He crosses his arms and looks over at Napoleon. "You are an intellectual man. I think you must enjoy the classics: the Greek philosophers, Shakespeare. And Dickens, perhaps?"

It's been a long time since Napoleon read for pleasure, since he read something that wasn't teaching him a language or skill needed in the field. He hasn't thought about novels or plays in what feels like a lifetime. "I've read them, of course," he says. "But I wouldn't say I'm a fan. Especially of Dickens, the old windbag. I've always preferred the American greats: Like you, I'm a fan of Theoreau. And Hemingway, Whitman. As a boy I enjoyed London and Twain."

"Aah. My Delma was fond of Jack London. _The Call of the Wild_ especially. She must have read it a dozen times."

"Delma?" Napoleon asks, brow furrowed.

Bastien nods. "My wife."

"You've never mentioned a wife."

A corner of Bastien's mouth lifts in a small, rueful smile. "We were in Bruges when the German army arrived. I made it out; she did not."

"I'm sorry," Napoleon says, and silently berates himself. He blames the slip-up on his exhaustion, but he still feels guilty, and careless. It's a story he's heard before, and he should have known.

"No need to be sorry," Bastien says with nothing but sincerity. He turns to the stove and takes a ladle down from a nail on the wall which he uses to stir the stew. Then he pours it back into the bowl and carries it over to Napoleon. "Here. Try to eat all of it. It will give you strength."

"Thank you," Napoleon answers, taking the proffered bowl. He takes a bite, and suddenly his stomach rumbles and pangs with hunger, reminding him of how little he's eaten over the past week. He finishes the rest of the bowl quickly, and even eats half a piece of hardtack, despite the fact that it's dreadful stuff that reminds him of the war.

"Here." Bastien's out of breath when he says it, and Napoleon looks up to see him walking into the room with a precariously tall stack of books. He'd been so busy eating he hadn't even noticed his host leave the room. Bastien sets the books down on the floor by the chair Napoleon is occupying. "That should keep you busy for some time. Now let's check your dressings."

Napoleon groans and goes about pulling down the blankets he has wrapped around his body, then lifts up his shirt-a sweater loaned to him by Bastien that manages to hang off of Napoleon's broad shoulders.

"Let's see," Bastien mutters, unwrapping the linen around Napoleon's torso that holds the bandages in place. He prods near the wound, and Napoleon grits his teeth, letting out a grunt when Bastien gets a little too close. "Sorry. Lean forward now."

Napoleon obeys, leaning forward and twisting a little so Bastien can look at the exit wound. He feels around for a moment, presumably checking for too-warm skin that could be indicative of infection, then sits back looking satisfied.

"You seem to be healing well. Still a long way to go, but no sign of infection."

"Thanks to you, no doubt," Napoleon says, lowering the oversized sweater and gathering the blankets back around himself. "You've been quite diligent in keeping my dressings changed and the…"

What he wants to say is _goddamn fucking hole_ , but it's not very gentlemanly. Just because he doesn't have his dignity doesn't mean he can't have manners.

"...and the wound...wounds...clean. I'm very grateful." He studies the larger man. "I'm a stranger to you, with nothing to offer in return for your services. Why are you doing all this?"

Bastien doesn't answer. He sits silently, his eyes taking on that alert vacancy that comes when someone is deep in thought, and then looks at Napoleon and gives him a tired smile. "I should cut some firewood. It's clearing up out there which means it will be a cold night." He's standing up and out the door before Napoleon has a chance to say anything else.

Napoleon watches him go, uttering a small, "Hm."

There's a mystery to the man that, under ordinary circumstances, would probably make him suspicious. But these aren't ordinary circumstances, and Napoleon doesn't have it in him at the moment to read very deeply into Bastien's tight-lippedness. Instead, he decides to take a look at the books Bastien brought out.

He takes a few deep breaths before pushing himself to his feet. As he does, the pain in his side flares up and his vision goes dark at the edges and he has to give up on his plan to lower himself gently to the ground, instead settling for falling gracelessly on his ass.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters, breathing deeply as he waits for his heart to settle back down to a normal rate. "Son of a _bitch_."

He can feel his frustration mounting, so he closes his eyes and continues the slow inhales and exhales, and tries to center his mind. But his thoughts keep drifting, violently, to the boy and to UNCLE and his partners and to those naked bodies in the snow and to the fact that he's stuck here and to the pain...

The pain.

It's not the worst part. Getting injured is part of the job, always has been. He can handle it. It's the recovery that he's always hated. At least usually he's spending his down time in HQ, learning a new language or decoding something or reading up on intel. But here, in a cabin in the middle of the woods, there's nothing to do except think about how much he isn't doing.

And who he isn't doing it with.

"Fuck!" He opens his eyes and sighs heavily before snatching a book off the pile. He looks at the cover and makes a face. It's a copy of _Gray's Anatomy_ , translated into German. "No, thank you." He sets it aside and looks through the rest. There are a few more medical books, some Kafka, a beat up copy of _Grimm's Fairy Tales_...Nothing catches his eye.

At the bottom of the stack is a box set of three thick books which, on further inspection, reveal themselves to be _Krieg und Frieden_. _War and Peace._

 _This will do_ , he thinks.

He's already read it, of course. Twice, actually. Once as a young man, before he'd enlisted, and then again a few years later in its native Russian, when he was learning the language. It isn't a favorite of his, by a long-shot, but he remembers the story well which means it'll be okay if he loses focus every once in a while to do other things like sleep.

And he likes it a hell of a lot better than Kafka.

He slides the first volume from the sleeve and opens it, sending up a puff of dust that makes him sneeze, and he lets out a groan as it sends a ripple of pain through his torso. And then he begins to read, marveling at how different the book is when translated into various languages. The plot is the same, of course, but it's the little differences that keep his interest-though they don't keep his interest _that_ much.

He only makes it a few pages in before he nods off.

xxx


	7. Chapter 7

Their first mission without him is a disaster.

Not that agents Kuryakin and Teller haven't gone on missions, just the two of them. They've done it plenty of times. But he was always there, helping with intel and prep, making snide remarks during the briefs and debriefs...

Waverly had always known that his three agents were close, but he could never have predicted the utter chaos that ensued after Agent Solo's death.

His desk phone rings and he picks it up immediately. "Yes?"

" _They've been released from the infirmary, sir."_

"Have them sent in." He hangs the phone up, and a few minutes later Kuryakin and Gaby enter his office.

The Russian's arm is in a sling and there's a cut on his nose and bruising across the bridge under his eyes that suggests it had been broken. Gaby doesn't look much better, with a split lip and a bruise on her cheekbone, along with a bandage over her collarbone that Waverly knows is covering stitches. Both of them look stubborn and angry, and Waverly sighs internally.

This is going to be more difficult than he thought.

"Sit," he says, folding his hands in front of him on his desk.

They do so, reluctantly. Their arms bump into each other as they do, and they shoot poisonous looks at one another.

"What happened?" It's less of a question and more of a demand.

"I thought Enzo told you," Illya says shortly, glowering at Waverly from under the bill of his cap, and it takes some effort on Waverly's part to keep his face neutral.

"He told me the gist of it, yes. But he wasn't there. I would like to know, from the two agents that were, just what the _hell_ went wrong!"

Gaby blinks pointedly and cocks her head to one side. "It probably has something to do with the fact that Red _Buffoon_ over here has the critical thinking skills of a banana!"

Illya's frown deepens and he turns to the other agent. "You would be wise to mind your tongue. Especially since I am the one who had to save _you_ from fight you pick with a man _twice_ your size, like some brat in schoolyard!"

" _You_ saved _me_?!" Her voice takes on a shrillness that Waverly knows is reserved for her angriest moments.

And then they're both talking at once, voices getting louder as they compete to be heard. Waverly watches them for a moment before barking, "Enough!"

They both stop immediately. Waverly looks at Gaby. "Step into the hall."

"But-"

"Agent Teller," he interrupts. "I'll hear from you in a moment. Now step outside. And close the door behind you, please."

She stares at him with a look of incredulity before thrusting herself from the chair and storming out of the office, slamming the door behind her. Illya flinches as she does and sinks down in his chair, looking miserable.

"Agent?" Waverly says.

"Was not my fault," he murmurs, leg bouncing, and Waverly can see the bruised knuckles of his good hand turning white as he grips the arm of his chair.

"I'm not looking for someone to blame, Kuryakin. I just want to piece together what happened."

Illya's mouth goes crooked as he chews the inside of his lip, avoiding eye contact with Waverly. His knee shakes. It's a long moment before he lifts his eyes and speaks.

"I stood out from beginning. Even with Daisy-"

"Diane," Waverly corrects before he can stop himself, getting him a well-deserved look of irritation from the Russian. "Right. It doesn't matter. Carry on."

"Even with her on my arm, security was breathing down neck the moment I walked in. I thought when we danced they would stop watching me, but…Gaby was waiting, so I had to move."

"Even though they were watching you."

Illya's expression darkens and his voice takes on a sharpness that hadn't been there before. "I knew if I did not get there that _she_ would not wait. I had to risk it. Diane told me on the way she wants to be actress, and she was happy to provide distraction so I could slip out. I met Gaby and we made it to office without being followed. She kept watch and I opened door, no problem. Except that intel was shit."

Waverly frowns. Enzo hadn't told him that part. "What do you mean?"

"Floor plan was backwards. Cowboy would have-" He stops abruptly, mouth snapping shut, and Waverly knows what he was going to say.

_Cowboy would have never let that happen._

And it's true. He wouldn't have.

"The floor plan was backwards. What happened next?" Waverly says, in part because he needs to hear the rest of the story but mostly because he doesn't want to think about the fallen agent.

"Three men came. They had guns and we had no choice but to dispatch them."

"You killed them?"

Illya shrugs. "They were breathing when we left them. We went back in main hallway to get to other side of house. A guest came out of the ballroom. Big man. Drunk. He said something vulgar to Gaby as we passed and instead of doing job and ignoring him, she decide to break his fingers. As you can imagine, he make a lot of noise. Sure to draw attention. So, we run. Make it to the correct office. I tried to pick lock but I can hear men coming. I ask Gaby to do it-"

"Since when does Gaby know how to pick a lock?" Waverly interjects, and Illya looks startled.

"Since American taught her."

"Of course he did," Waverly mutters. "Go on."

"I ask her, she refuse. Says she thinks there could be trap, that since our cover is blown anyway we should find Lefevre and force him to open safe. I told her there was no time and that intel would have shown trap, but she would not listen. Guards were closing in. I make call. Kick door down. And..."

"And?"

Illya eyes him. "You're going to make me say it?"

"You haven't finished yet," Waverly says.

Illya huffs out a breath, glaring at Waverly. "And there was a fu-" He starts to swear, then sees Waverly's expression and thinks better of it, his frown lessening slightly. "There was a trap. I heard mechanism and dove out of way just in time. I don't remember much of extraction. There. Now I am finished."

Waverly studies him for a long moment. Beneath the anger and frustration is that same emotion that he'd seen the day they'd found out about Agent Solo: pain. He takes a deep breath.

"Thank you. Send Gaby in, please, and wait in the hall for a moment."

Illya pushes himself up from the chair as aggressively as he can manage, battered as he is, and yanks the door open, stepping into the hall. Gaby storms in a second later, slamming the door behind her. She throws herself onto a chair and crosses her arms over her chest with a scowl.

"I suppose he told you it was all my fault?"

Waverly sighs internally. This is already off to a smashing start. "I'll tell you the same thing I told him," he says. "I'm not looking to place blame. I just want to understand what went wrong."

"What didn't go wrong? It was wrong from the beginning. Illya should never have been there as a guest."

"It was the only way we could get both of you in. Two unfamiliar waitstaff would have drawn Lefevre's attention and-"

"And you needed someone with household access so we couldn't go as a couple, and there was no one in your pocket with a son going to the party. Only a daughter. I know all of that. I'm just saying, the mission was doomed from the start. I did my part, then I stayed near the ballroom and waited for Illya to arrive. The moment he walked in with that girl on his arm, all eyes were on him."

"Surely there were other tall guests?"

Gaby lets out a mirthless chuckle. "Oh, yes. But none of them walked like a giant Russian robot with a stick up his behind and a look on his face like he would rather be anywhere else in the world! Oh, and you should have seen him dance. The man was trained in ballroom, you know, but you never would have guessed it seeing him on that floor. It was like she was dancing with a tree. The only reason we made it to the office without being followed is that the girl pretended to faint as we left, caused a scene. Who would have guessed that a civilian girl in a pretty dress would be more useful than a highly trained KGB agent?"

"Gaby," Waverly warns. "Stick with the facts please."

"Mm." She raises her eyebrows. "The facts. The facts! The fact is that your new American-" (she spits those last two words out with venom) "-Hunter, got the intel wrong. We made it to the office and it wasn't even locked! By the time we were done making sure it really was the wrong room, security showed up. Luckily for us, Lefevre is a cheapskate and didn't spend money on well-trained guards. It was easy to dispatch them. And then we crossed to the other office."

"You made it to the other side of the house with no incident?"

Gaby's eyes narrow and she opens her mouth, then closes it.

"Illya told me a man...spoke inappropriately to you and you broke his fingers?" Waverly continues.

Gaby straightens in her chair and leans forward. "Is that what he told you? Yes, a man spoke inappropriately to me!" Her voice gets louder, almost to a shout, as she continues. "And I would have ignored him, except that as I passed he grabbed my ass! And I removed his hand from it. If a few of his fingers broke then that is his own fault for touching me. Can I continue? I have other things to do today, you know!"

"Go on, then," Waverly says, deciding that now isn't the time to pick a fight over disrespect or the importance of keeping one's cool no matter the circumstance (something both his agents have been struggling with as of late).

"We made it to the other side of the house and something didn't feel right. It seemed to me that if the information was so important to Lefevre that he would have better security than a bunch of half-cocked imbeciles. So I thought there might be some sort of extra measure at the office. But Illya wouldn't listen to me! He tried to pick the lock with one of those silly Russian gadgets of his but it wasn't working and we could hear more men coming. And I wouldn't pick the lock-I could have!-but I didn't because I thought it might be rigged. I told him as much, and what does he do? He kicks the _fucking_ door in and I have to tackle him out of the way of an explosion that blasts a hole right out to the street! Solo would have listened to me!"

Her breath catches in her throat then and her mouth snaps shut and she blinks a few times.

"That'll do," Waverly says softly. "Thank you, Agent."

"Can I go now?" Gaby's voice is tight.

"In a moment." It's obvious what the problem is, what had caused such a collapse in his little team.

Agent Solo's absence has left a vacuum in UNCLE that he suspects won't be easily filled. In the meantime, there's nothing to do but patch it and hope that operations can resume without what happened last night becoming a pattern.

He raises his voice. "Agent Kuryakin, come back in, please?"

The door opens and Illya comes in, his demeanor markedly changed, and sits next to Gaby. He looks down at his hands.

"I didn't know he touched you," he whispers out of the corner of his mouth. Gaby doesn't look at him.

"Please, can we get this over with?" she says, picking at the corner of her bandage.

"What happened wasn't your fault," Waverly announces. "Either of you. It was mine."

Both agents look up in surprise. Waverly sighs and opens his drawer, pulling out his new tin of tobacco and a rolling paper in an attempt to soothe his heightening emotions.

"I shouldn't have sent you out there. You're both suspended from the field until further notice."

" _What?!_ " the agents cry in unison.

"It's clear that neither of you are ready. You're both shaken from what happened to Agent Solo, and I don't blame you. I really don't. I-I'm still processing it as well. I thought that sending you on a mission would help get things back to normal-or as close to normal as we could get. But I see now that what you need is time to grieve." He puts his rolled cigarette down.

"He was a good agent. And there is no denying that his loss has been a blow to us all. But you've got to take some time to recover. And I don't mean drowning your sorrows in alcohol." He looks pointedly at Gaby. "Talk to each other. Or don't. But you won't resume regular duties until you've found a way to be professionals again. Understood?"

Both of them murmur an affirmative and Waverly nods.

"Good. Dismissed."

He waits until his office door is closed before he swivels in his chair and opens the cabinet behind him. There's an empty space where a bottle of gin used to be; he suspects Gaby swiped it. And there's a bottle of very expensive single malt from Agent Solo, and Waverly's mind wanders before he has a chance to stop it.

When he'd talked to the CIA about taking Solo on, Sanders had scoffed, warning him of the agent's relentless selfishness and complete inability to work with others, and that Waverly had better watch out: Napoleon Solo was like a wild animal, backed into the corner. The instant he saw a moment's weakness, he would go for the jugular and make a run for it.

The whiskey was a birthday gift from early in the partnership. Only Waverly's birthday is classified. He still hasn't the faintest idea how the American found out, and he knows Solo only gave Waverly the whiskey as a way to brag. _Look what I can do._ But it was nothing more than that. Not a warning, or a threat. Waverly had known by the warm, sly half-smile on the agent's face as he set the bottle on his desk, a red ribbon tied neatly around the neck.

He'd proven his CIA handler wrong that day. And had continued to prove him wrong every day after.

When Waverly had notified Sanders about his death, the response was cold and indifferent. It was no wonder that Napoleon had disliked the weasely man as much as he did.

Waverly sighs and pulls out a bottle of cognac.

He thinks he's earned a bit of hypocrisy.

xxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! Thanks for sticking with me thus far! As you know, October starts tomorrow. This year I'm going to attempt to participate in both Inktober (this is my fourth year!!) and Whumptober simultaneously, so updates on this fic will probably be placed on hold for the time being. I hope you're enjoying the fic! If you wish to follow me on either of my other endeavors, my Inktober drawings will be posted on my instagram, leahhutchart and my whumptober posts will be on my whump blog on tumblr, whumpdoyoumean
> 
> Happy fall!! Thanks for your support and patience!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! I had a really productive October and was able to do Inktober every day and somehow pulled off a ficlet for every day of Whumptober as well! I hope you like this update! Also just FYI, I broke the end off my tailbone about a week ago so I can't sit down, so it's really hard to actually sit down and work on fic. I apologize if my updates continue to pretty sporadic. I appreciate all your support!

It takes a little more than a week for Napoleon to tire of _War and Peace_. On the upside, he's on the road to recovery, able to stay on his feet longer every day, spending more and more time awake. And on the downside, he now has more hours to spend just thinking about things he'd rather not be.

Like the dream he had last night.

He dreamt of Illya.

He dreamt that he made it back to London, to headquarters. He went straight to Illya's room, though the halls took on the maze-like quality inherent in dreams and it took longer than it should to get there. The whole time he was picturing their reunion, the look on Illya's face when he realized that Napoleon was back. The door was open a crack when he got there, and he pushed it open. The room was dark and strangely claustrophobic, and Napoleon found himself becoming uneasy in the usually comfortable space.

"Peril!"

Illya, sitting at his desk, didn't respond. Didn't even flinch. Napoleon stepped forward.

"Illya?"

Still nothing.

"Illya," he repeated, feeling himself start to panic. "Look at me."

He reached forward and touched his shoulder, and Illya turned, but his face...It was blank. Cold. Panic shifted to fear.

"It's me," Napoleon said, and his voice was weak, his still outstretched hand trembling. "Napoleon."

Illya looked at him, eyes steely. "And?"

He'd woken up in a cold sweat, heart hammering.

And he's been thinking about it ever since.

Not that Illya would forget him. Napoleon is pretty damn unforgettable. But Illya moving on...that's a lot more probable than Napoleon would like to admit. It's happened before. People come in and out of his life all the time. The life he's chosen, it just comes with the territory. Partnerships, relationships...they're as expendable as the people in them. And he understood that when he signed up for UNCLE.

Except that the little team has turned out to be different. For the first time, he actually cares, _really_ cares, beyond a professional capacity, about the people he's working with. Gaby, Waverly even. And Illya...

He'd never admit it to anyone, but he's caught feelings for the Russian. And it had happened embarrassingly early on. What started as morbid fascination had become respect had become something else. It's why he'd taken the watch on that first op-a simple action on his part that took little effort. It was an action he wouldn't have taken for someone else. He wouldn't have even thought to. The change on Illya's face as he caught the gently tossed watch had said it all. And the two have gotten along pretty well since then. But there's no definitive evidence that he sees Napoleon as anything more than a partner.

No evidence that he won't have moved on already.

The thought makes Napoleon feel things he's rarely allowed himself to feel in what seems like a lifetime. Fear. Inadequacy. Heart break.

He shakes his head as if doing so could somehow force the thoughts from his brain and tries to get back to reading. But he's read the same page four times now without actually comprehending a word. _War and Peace_ is not doing it for him anymore. He sighs loudly and pushes the blankets off of himself and stands. It doesn't take too much effort this time, and he's able to walk around the little cabin a few times without even breaking a sweat. The exercise seems to genuinely be helping in keeping his mind off of things.

He thinks that maybe some fresh air would help even more.

A few minutes later, he's out behind the cabin, watching his breath come out in puffs. The cold, sharp air stings every bit of the exposed skin of his hands and face, but that small unpleasantness is worth it to breathe fresh air for the first time in over two weeks, even if it does make his lungs ache just a little. And he's not too cold, otherwise, bundled as he is in clothes loaned to him by Bastien. The legs of the trousers are rolled up, as are the sleeves of his long shirt and flannel, the arms of the heavy fur coat extend to his second knuckles, and the hat on his head feels like it may slip over his eyes at any moment-a far cry from the tailored suits Napoleon has grown used to. But he's thankful, more than thankful, and keenly aware of the debt he owes the man. A debt he will never be able to fully repay.

Standing out there in the cold, bouncing on his toes with his hands cupped at his mouth, breathing into them in a feeble attempt to return the feeling to his fingers, his eyes land on a stump with an axe buried in it. Next to it is a pile of uncut wood.

And suddenly Napoleon knows how he may begin to repay the debt.

It takes him a few tugs to get the axe free, and already he's feeling the effort. But he doesn't stop, instead opting to pick up one of the logs and balance it on its end on the stump. And he swings. There's a satisfying _thwack_ , and the two pieces of wood fall away.

He smiles, and he does it again.

And again.

He's well educated and has a remarkably sharp memory, but Napoleon Solo isn't always smart, and as he lifts his ax for the upteenth time, he is made keenly aware of that fact.

It's the reopening of the wound that does it. He drops the ax as though it's bitten him and claps a hand to his side. The feeling is painful and nauseating and sucks the air from his lungs. It takes only seconds before his hand grows warm with blood and he closes his eyes and sighs heavily. He opens them again and pulls his hand away just enough to catch a glimpse of the red, then quickly puts his hand back.

"Shit."

He eases himself into the snow and leans against the stump with a sigh. The cold white power doesn't take long to start soaking through his clothes but his heart is hammering and it's taking longer than he'd like to catch his breath and his bullet wound is aching and he doesn't really feel like standing up even if his ass is quite literally freezing, so he stays put. Minutes pass and his rear-end starts to go numb and he wishes he would've just stayed inside reading.

"I should get up," he mutters, and he thinks about it, he really does, but he's tired and can't actually will himself to move. So instead he sighs and lets his heavy lids slip shut.

xxx

" _Das ist doch nicht dein Ernst_."

Napoleon opens his eyes to see Bastien standing over him.

"Ah. Hello," the American says with a sheepish grin. "I decided to pop out for a bit of fresh air and got so comfortable I must have...dozed off."

Bastien is glaring at him, though Napoleon can see the concern beneath it.

"I'm really fine," Napoleon says, and Bastien's frown melts.

"Come," he sighs, reaching to help him up. "Let's get you inside."

Napoleon looks at the outstretched hand and briefly contemplates turning it down, but a pang in his side makes him reconsider and he takes it. He tries very hard to stand without indicating the pain he's in and he fails miserably, hand tightening against the wound as a grunt escapes him.

"You opened the wound." It's not a question.

Napoleon grimaces. "I did," he answers through grit teeth, hoping Bastien will somehow pick up on the half-assed attempt at an apology.

"I told you, did I not? I told you, just this morning when I took off the bandages!" Bastien says as he maneuvers himself and Napoleon back into the cabin.

"Told me what?"

"That you are still healing and you're not to overwork yourself."

"I did no such thing!"

"So you just picked up my axe and dropped it in the snow for fun?"

Napoleon bites his lower lip and then offers up a grin of the shit-eating variety. "Yes I did. It was very fun."

"And the three freshly cut logs?"

"It was more than three!" Napoleon replies, too quickly to recognize the trap.

Bastien snorts. "You Americans. Full of shit. I was just out there and I saw. There were three of them. And very uneven. Now sit down. Shirts off."

Napoleon scowls at him but complies. The usual sympathy isn't visible in the man's face, and in its place is a look that says, _I told you so._

Napoleon lets out a long groan as he gets to the last layer, a white undershirt. It's stained with blood, which has dried and adhered to the wound. He looks up at Bastien, who's already leaning forward and whose expression has shifted to one of worry.

" _Betonkopf_ ," he murmurs.

"I don't know that o- _ah!_ " Napoleon's sentence is cut off by a cry as Bastien pushes the shirt up, pulling the crusted blood away from the wound. He can feel a warm trickle of fresh red liquid a second later.

"It means cement head!" Bastien says. "You would say idiot."

"Got it," Napoleon gasps as he catches his breath.

"Arms up," Bastien commands, uncharacteristically terse. Napoleon raises his arms obediently, doing a very good job of not letting it show on his face how much it hurts. Bastien pulls the shirt over Napoleon's head and throws it to the side. "It looks like the bleeding has nearly stopped. I'll have to clean it. And bandage it, again. Even though I thought we were done with that!"

"Yeah, yeah," Napoleon grumbles, sitting back in the chair as Bastien sets to work.

"You are unusually lucky, _Herr_ Solo." Bastien remarks. "You could have hurt yourself with the ax, or opened your wound worse than you did and bled out, or frozen to death in the snow! What were you thinking?"

"Uh…You really wanna know the answer to that?"

"I really do." His usual delicacy is all but gone, and Napoleon has to clench his teeth to keep from making noise every time Bastien comes into contact with the wound. "But after I am done. I would like to have a conversation with you while I'm sitting in the other chair instead of crouched on the floor with your blood on my fingers."

"Fair enough."

Bastien finishes quickly after that, then straightens. "I'll be back, and then you are going to tell me how someone who has read Tolstoy in three languages can be so stupid." He disappears into his room, then returns with a clean shirt in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other. "Here."

He tosses the shirt at Napoleon, who less catches it and more grabs at it as it hits him in the face. He pulls it on as Bastien sits in the chair next to him and takes a swig of brandy.

"Can I get a drink of that?" Napoleon asks.

Bastien snorts. "No. Alcohol thins the blood, and I think you've already lost enough of that today." He takes another drink, then sets the bottle on the little table between his chair and Napoleon's and looks at him expectantly.

Napoleon isn't sure he wants to answer honestly, if at all, but there's something about Bastien that he trusts, and so he speaks, though the words don't come out as easily as they usually do.

"I...I had a nightmare. About my, uh...co-worker. My, my friend, really."

"Illya," Bastien says, and Napoleon looks up sharply, suddenly on high alert.

"How did-how do you know that name?"

"You said it in your sleep, the night I found you," Bastien explains.

Napoleon feels his face and ears turning red and he tries not to look as flustered as he feels. "I, uh-he-we, it's...uh."

Bastien just smiles, firmly back to his warm and cuddly self. "Don't worry," he says. "Go on, if you want. If you prefer not to, I understand."

Napoleon is good at most things, but he's the first to admit that vulnerability is far from his strong suit. Sarcasm and deflection are far more his speed. He tries to convince himself that it's because he's strong and funny and suave, and that the hard stuff rolls off him like water off a duck's back. Deep down, however, he knows it's a defense mechanism. But it's the only way he knows how to live, and he hates it.

So, just this once, in a cabin in the middle of the damned woods sitting by the fire with a kind stranger and a bullet wound in his side, he decides to let his guard down, all the way.

"I was stuck," he says, and the rest follows. The words tumble out, haltingly at first and then steady and sure. "I was living well. I had a steady career, nice suits, nicer cars, even nicer women. But it didn't make me happy, not really. It was just...stuff. Distractions to try and make myself forget that I was...at the end of a very long leash. I was resigned to that being my existence until I was able to earn back my freedom or die trying. And then these...very annoying people came into my life. This posh, smug Brit and this…" He finds a corner of his mouth beginning to lift. "This tiny little spitfire of a German mechanic and...And this big, stupid Russian who wears entirely too many turtlenecks."

"Russian? That must be…"

"Illya," Napoleon confirms. "My partner. At my new job, I mean."

"The job that left you shot in the woods?"

Napoleon opens his mouth and moves it wordlessly a second before letting out a breath. "Now that I _can't_ talk about. Highly classified and all that. You can't say a word about this to anyone."

"My lips are sealed," Bastien says, then takes a long drink of brandy.

"Good. The dream I had last night, the nightmare. I dreamt that I made it back to...to work. To Illya. But when I got there, he…" The emotions he'd felt when he'd jerked awake last night come rushing back.

"He didn't remember you?" Bastien guesses.

"Worse than that. He didn't care."

"And you fear that Illya-the real Illya-may feel this way also."

Napoleon nods. "I didn't want to think about it and Tolstoy wasn't doing the trick."

"I see," Bastien says. "That's why you decided to go cut my wood."

"Yes."

"Hm. You are an interesting man, _Herr_ Solo. All of this talk and you're more of a mystery than ever. Still a _betonkopf_ though."

"You're a bit of a mystery yourself, big man," Napoleon says.

"Oh?"

"You still haven't told me why you're helping me."

Bastien sighs and looks down at his hands. "I have seen enough people- _felt_ enough people-die to last a thousand lifetimes. I am not going to watch another person die, Solo. I don't care who they are."

Napoleon gets the sense that there's more to it than Bastien is letting on, and he's determined to get to the bottom of it, sometime. But for now he says, "Might I make myself a cup of coffee? Surely that isn't too strenuous an activity."

"No coffee. It is a stimulant. You can have herbal tea. There's chamomile, peppermint, ginger, rosehip...Probably more that I am forgetting. I'll build the fire in the stove. You can do the rest."

"Yes, warden," Napoleon grumbles leaning his head back.

If he hears Bastien swearing at him under his breath, he doesn't mention it.

xxx


	9. Chapter 9

"Napoleon!" Illya sits bolt-upright and tries to catch his breath, heart hammering.

It's the same nightmare he's had every night since that day with Byrne.

The one where he's in the compound in Belgium, and he can smell the smoke and hear the crackle of the flame and everything is dark except for the bright white snow that squeaks softly under his boots and the orange glow coming through the high, narrow window of the small outbuilding. He knows he should be hurrying, but he dreads what is waiting for him and so he walks with heavy feet, his breath coming out in puffs. As he approaches the building, snow begins to fall, but the flakes are mixed with ash and they scorch his cheeks and neck and the backs of his hands. The closer he gets, the more he wants to run in the other direction as fast as he can and not look back, and as he arrives the feeling is so strong that it makes his chest ache. He reaches up to open the door, and his hand is shaking. As he wraps it around the handle, it's so hot that he can hear the skin of his hand sizzle, though he barely feels it. He takes a breath, and then opens the door.

The single-roomed building is filled with fire, and in the middle of it, bound and gagged, is Napoleon. There's blood matting his curls, and it's clear from the cuts and bruises on his face, the obviously broken nose and cheekbone, that he's been beaten. Tortured. He looks up at Illya, his blue eyes wide and pleading. Illya tries to move forward, but it's like his feet have been cemented to the floor and he's helpless. Helpless as the flames move closer to the American, closer and closer until they're licking at him, filling the space with the stench of burning flesh.

Napoleon jerks in pain and begins to struggle, screaming against the gag in his mouth. And his eyes stay glued on Illya, full of fear and pain as the flames engulf him and Illya, he tries and he tries to reach him, to save him. And when that doesn't work, he tries to speak, to offer some sort of comfort. But his vocal cords are paralysed, and nothing comes out as much as he tries. He prays for the smoke to suffocate him, or the heat to take him, but he remains untouched. All he can do is watch as his partner is reduced to ash. It's only then that he's able to move, though he's still rooted in place. He looks down at his hand, to the thing he's holding. The thing he's been holding all along. The last thing he sees before he wakes up.

A blackened match.

" _Chyort voz'mi!_ " he swears, driving a fist into his mattress. He shoves the blankets away and swings his legs over onto the floor. " _Zhizn' ebet meya…_ "

He stands and starts to pace in an effort to calm himself, but as he does all he can see is his booted foot landing in snow and that damned room and the smell and the sound of Napoleon screaming, of that fucking Irishman's laugh…

The yell rips from him before he knows it's happening and his vision goes black. When he comes back to himself, his good hand is wrist-deep in the wall. He extracts it slowly, watching as little bits of plaster fall to the ground. His knuckles are bloodied and already swelling.

Illya's heart is still pounding and hands still trembling when he storms out of his room.

xxx

A shout and loud bang rouse Gaby from her sleep and she sits up and turns on the lamp next to her.

"Illya?" she calls. She hops out of bed and slides her feet into her slippers before padding out into the hall. She's not sure what happened, but she's already feeling guilty. They've barely talked since the mission. He's tried, but she's been angry, and stubborn, and so wrapped up in her own pain that she hasn't been able to understand his. "Kuryakin?"

The door to his room is slightly ajar, and Gaby pushes it open before reaching in to flick on the light. His bed is unmade (she's never seen it unmade unless he was in it) and there's a hole in the wall and he's nowhere to be seen. Her chest tightens with worry and she flips the switch off before stepping back into the hall.

It's then that she sees it-a crack of light, coming from a few doors down.

Napoleon's room.

She creeps forward until she gets to the door. She raps the wood twice with a knuckle before she opens it.

"Illya?" she says quietly, peering into the room.

The Russian is sitting on the end of Napoleon's bed, straight and stiff, staring at the wall. Gaby leans against the doorframe.

He doesn't move, doesn't even blink.

"I, um. I wanted to apologize for my behavior during the mission. I should have been more in control…" She sighs. That's not why she's here. She knows it. He knows it.

"I heard you shout," she says. "Earlier I thought I heard you call his name."

And then she waits, knowing that he'll speak when he's ready. When he finally does, his voice is soft and hollow.

"He wanted to be buried in the town where he was born. Burlington, New York. He has not been there since before the war. But he wanted to go back. I could always tell when he grew tired during stakeout or research because he would start to talk about the...the leaves. How beautiful they were in autumn and how they made trees look like they were on fire." He falls silent again.

"I didn't know that," Gaby says. A small part of her is jealous that she'd never been offered this glimpse into the American, but she knows the bond between him and Illya is different. _Was_ different. There's more that she wants to say, to ask, but she doesn't; she gets the sense that Illya isn't finished yet.

He finally turns to her, moving for the first time, and Gaby is struck by how tired he looks. Dark circles give a sunken appearance to his sullen eyes, his skin is pale, and the nicks and bruises from the explosion don't look as though they're healing the way they should be.

"Are you alright?" she asks quietly.

"I killed him," he whispers. His expression is one of anguish.

A lump forms in her throat and she steps into the room. "Illya…"

"No!" he cries, and the sorrow in his voice breaks Gaby's heart to pieces. "Gaby, I did. I did. I left him, bleeding and cold and those bastards took him and hurt him and burned him. He died alone and then they burned him."

She crosses the remaining space between them and sits next to Illya. Her feet dangle above the ground. She looks up at him. "There's nothing you could have done differently."

"I could have carried him!"

"And what about the boy?"

"He could have walked."

"For kilometers? In the snow? They would have caught up to you, Illya."

"At least he would not have been alone!" His shoulders slump and he hangs his head with a sigh. "I could have done something. I could have thought of something."

For a moment, she thinks he might cry, but he doesn't, just stares blankly at the floor.

"Look at me," she says gently. He obeys with visible reluctance, lifting his head and turning to her, though he still avoids her gaze. She puts a hand on his face, careful of the still-healing injuries there. "Hey."

He looks up with wide eyes.

"Feeling it is the only way to get better."

"I don't want to feel it."

"Me neither. But we've seen what happens when we try not to, Illya. It's dangerous and destructive. Just look at our last mission."

Illya lets out a loud breath through his nose that Gaby recognizes as the rough equivalent of a laugh and envelops Gaby's hand with his.

"I hate it when you are right," he says. "But I...I do not even know where to start. I fear that it will...overtake me. That I will lose myself in it. It feels like there is...knife in me. Here." He removes his hand from Gaby's and touches his chest. "And when I think about him, is like someone moves it. Twists it. But if I avoid it, knife just sits there. Painful, but easier to ignore."

Gaby moves her hand down and lifts one corner of her mouth. "If you don't remove the knife, you'll never heal."

"If I do, I may bleed out."

She doesn't answer. She hates it when he's right, too. As much as she's trying to seem otherwise, she's as lost and scared of the process as he is. They both sit there for awhile in silence. Much to Gaby's surprise, it's Illya that eventually breaks it.

"We will have to figure it out together, hm?"

"We will. But first, sleep." She slides forward until her slippered feet are on the floor. Illya doesn't move. She looks back at him. "Are you going to bed?"

"I…" He looks down, suddenly bashful. "I think I may sleep here tonight. It…" He clears his throat, and Gaby thinks she sees his cheeks grow pink. "The room smells like him."

She hadn't noticed it before, but the Russian is right. It smells just like him, a mixture of his cologne and shoe polish and coffee. The tears well up unexpectedly, and they fall before she can stop them.

"You want to stay with me?"

She sniffs and nods before wiping at the tears with the sleeve of her pajamas. Illya stands, and together they pull down the blankets. Gaby climbs in, and Illya joins her a moment later, after turning off the light and closing the door. They lay on their backs, side by side.

The pillows smell like Napoleon's hair gel.

It doesn't take long for the agents to drift off, and both sleep better than they have in many nights.

xxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! Sorry for the delayed update, I've been trying not to post a chapter unless I have at least the next one completed. Well, chapter 10 isn't quite finished, but I'm getting close! It's been a busy time. A hard time, too. And a sad time. A lot to keep me busy--some good, and some not so good. But this story is important to me, and so are all of you who have been taking the time to read it! Because of the holiday season coming up, I don't see things slowing down for me any time soon. But I'm going to do my best to post at least one more chapter after this one before things get REALLY crazy next month. So please forgive me if things are very slow for a bit. Y'all are amazing! And as ever, thank you for the support. <3 
> 
> Much love,   
> Leah
> 
> P.S. My tailbone is improving quickly! Still a bit sore, but I've got most of my mobility back and have started physical therapy and I'm doing well!


	10. Chapter 10

Bastien is gone by the time Napoleon wakes up. That's been the norm lately, now that the danger of Napoleon silently slipping away in his sleep has gone down significantly. Usually, there's breakfast waiting for him. Today, there's only a note.

_Porridge on the stove when you get hungry. ~B_

Napoleon looks at it and he can't help but smile. Because, for the first time in the three weeks he's been here, the giant Belgian has trusted Napoleon to do something for himself. Which shouldn't be such a big deal, but the agent is choosing to take it as a sign that he's going to be ready to head back to London soon. Back to work. Back to UNCLE.

Back to blessed civilization.

And back to his barber.

Bastien, for all of his preparedness, doesn't have a razor. Hasn't any need for it, apparently. He'd offered to sharpen a knife for Napoleon to shave with instead, but Napoleon had politely turned him down. He's had enough close calls involving knives and his face. He would much rather wait until he can sit down at his favorite barber shop and just relax. Even if it means putting up with increasingly long and itchy scruff that is dangerously close to being a beard.

He props himself up on one elbow and runs his fingers over his hairy chin, and then through his long, unruly curls. It's hard to feel like himself under the circumstances. But getting his own breakfast will be a start.

Sitting up fully still hurts enough that he can't help but let out a sharp gasp, but he's able to get to his feet without completely running out of breath. He puts on the clothes that Bastien has left out for him and silently bemoans the fact that the man hadn't left him a pair of socks-the floor is cold, and it's leaching the heat through the soles of Napoleon's feet. He rises onto his tiptoes and hurries into the kitchen, eager to get his breakfast and then get his feet back under a blanket.

He's dishing himself a bowl of porridge when the back door opens and Bastien comes in, carrying a big armful of wood.

"You're back early," Napoleon says. He looks at the large stack of logs beside the stove and then back at Bastien. "Do we need more wood?"

"There is a blizzard coming," Bastien says. "Excuse me."

Napoleon steps out of the small kitchen so Bastien can carry the wood to the pile. "You seem quite sure," Napoleon says, peering out the window. Besides a bit of wind, the weather doesn't look too bad. Not much worse than it has been.

"It is quiet out there. The animals are taking shelter, and they know better than you or I. That, and the wind is picking up. And I've a barometer on my bedroom wall. The barometric pressure has dropped. Any one of these could be a sign of a coming storm. In my experience, all three together mean it's almost a certainty. So I'm preparing now-I would rather not get caught out there when it hits."

Napoleon takes a few bites of porridge before answering. "Hm. Can't say that I blame you. I hate the cold."

Bastien looks over his shoulder at him as he adds the logs to the pile.

"Why's that?"

Napoleon knows the answer to that. The men in Bastogne. But he doesn't want to talk about that, so he does one of the things he does best.

He lies, the most convincing sort of lie. The kind that's buried in truth.

"I was raised in upstate New York," he says, and almost smiles at the memory of the trees in fall. "In a little house on the edge of the woods. There was a pond in those woods. My mother called it Walden Pond. The other boys and I called it the Rink. It froze over every winter and we'd put on our skates and play hockey with brooms and whatever makeshift puck we could find." The lie comes easy. "The snow came early one year. The Rink was frozen by Thanksgiving. The other boys didn't think the ice was thick enough. I was younger than them, smaller than them. Stupider than them, too. I wanted to prove I had guts. So I went out there anyway. And they were right. I fell in. If Georgie the Eagle Scout hadn't've been there, I probably would have frozen to death."

"That sounds scary. I bet your parents were worried sick."

Napoleon can't help but chuckle at that. It hadn't happened, but he knows what his mother's reaction would have been if it had. "She was. She gave me a hug and then went after me with a wooden spoon. I couldn't sit for a week."

Bastien laughs, a low rumble that shakes his whole frame. "She sounds wonderful."

"She is," Napoleon answers, and maybe it's the fact that he's been in near-isolation for weeks, or his weakened state, but he's suddenly filled with a longing for home that he hasn't had since he left it.

Luckily, Bastien is done stacking the wood he'd brought in. "I'd love to hear more about her. But for now, I should bring in more wood."

"Oh!" Napoleon shovels the last of his porridge into his mouth. "Let me help."

Bastien chuckles as he walks toward the door. "I don't think so. But thank you."

Napoleon trails after him, setting the bowl on the counter as he passes it. "You can hand me the wood and I'll stack it."

"I think it would be faster to do it myself-"

"Please, Bastien!" It comes out more desperate than he'd intended. But the seemingly small action is another step toward getting his strength back. And himself back. And just getting. _Back_. "I just-I want to help."

Bastien looks at him for a long moment, then nods toward his feet. "You'll need your shoes, then. I tucked your socks inside, but they don't look very warm. I've extras in my top bureau drawer, if you would like. Wool."

"Thanks," Napoleon says. Bastien waves a hand and then heads back out into the snow. Napoleon watches him pull the door closed behind him before he turns and walks to Bastien's room. He hasn't set foot in there, or even seen inside, in the time he's been here.

Not that he hasn't wanted to. His keen awareness of the debt he owes has precluded his innate nosiness. Now that he's been invited, however, he's interested to see what's behind the bedroom door.

There's a fireplace on the left hand side, a gentle flame crackling inside. That combined with the white, snowy daylight outside the window opposite the door is enough to light the small space. The first thing that draws Napoleon's attention is the bedframe, which is plain but neat and sturdy-looking. That sets the tone for the whole room, really-the dresser and vanity, the curtains, the quilt on the bed-are all simple, but well made. There's a sparseness to the space, but the handmade nature of it keeps it from being cold or sterile.

It reminds him of Illya, though it's the Russian himself that keeps his immaculate space from becoming frigid.

Speaking of frigid, Napoleon suddenly remembers the coldness of his feet, and he crosses the room to the small dresser next to the window. There's not much on top of it, just an ushanka-hat and what appears to be a roll of lamp wick. Nothing that reveals anything about Bastian that Napoleon doesn't already know.

The contents of the top drawer are slightly more interesting. Besides several pairs of the promised wool socks, there are also medical supplies-not surprising, as a man living alone in the woods is bound to need the occasional patching up. What is surprising is the fact that a lot of the supplies-sulfa powder, iodine swabs, gause and triangular bandages-all appear to be military issue. He's not sure what that means, exactly, but he stores the knowledge away. He grabs a pair of the wool socks and shuts the drawer again, then turns to leave. And stops dead in his tracks.

"My god," he murmurs.

There's a mirror hanging above the vanity next to the door. It's the first time Napoleon has seen his reflection since Bastien found him those weeks ago. He takes a few reluctant steps forward, raising a hand to touch his bearded face. He barely recognizes himself as he turns slowly and takes in the sight of himself. It isn't just long curls and the hair on his face. He's lost some weight, too, enough that his eyes and cheeks look sunken and his sharp features have become even more prominent, harsh even. He looks at the face in the mirror for a long time, and it's oddly difficult to think of the ragged man staring back at him as himself.

It's a far cry from the version of himself he's crafted so carefully these last decades. From the day he enlisted, he knew he wanted to be a wealthy man, and he'd done what he had to to get there. Even though the spy thing hadn't been a part of the plan, he's grown to love it. Napoleon Solo, clean-cut and well dressed and a perfect gentleman except for when it suits him to be otherwise. He can charm most anyone with a wink and a smile and a few carefully chosen words.

The man he sees in the mirror ( _That's me_ , he reminds himself) couldn't charm the pants off a habitual flasher.

He isn't sure how long he stands like that before his attention finally shifts to what's in the corner of his vision, and he looks down.

There are two black and white photographs tucked between the wood and the glass. One is of a woman in her mid-twenties, with brown wavy hair down to her jaw, wearing a flowing dress and looking over her shoulder at the camera with a coy smile on her face. She has a book clutched to her chest with one arm, and there's no doubt in Napoleon's mind that this is Delma.

The other photograph proves more puzzling. It's a young couple, just kids, and neither of them is Delma or Bastien. More puzzling still is the dark stain on one corner. It's hard to tell in the light, but he thinks it may be blood.

The sound of the door opening reminds Napoleon of his task, and he hastily pulls the socks on before stepping out of the bedroom and heading toward the kitchen, where Bastien has just walked in with an armful of wood. He walks in a few steps before dumping the freshly cut logs on the floor in front of the fireplace.

"There," the Belgian says, red-faced and out of breath. "You can stack while I cut more?"

"Yes!" Napoleon says, too eagerly. He clears his throat. "Yes, I can do that."

"If it feels like anything is starting to open up or hurt too much, you're to stop and go sit down, yes?"

"Understood," Napoleon says with mock seriousness. Bastien narrows his eyes at him before shaking his head and turning to the door with a grunt that's somewhere between irritation and resignation.

The work, while not particularly difficult, is embarrassingly taxing and it isn't long before Napoleon finds himself working up a sweat. But it's infinitely better than the restless pacing that has been his exercise for the last three weeks, and not as painful as that time he decided to wield an ax two weeks after a bullet decided that through his side would be the best way to get from point A to point B. Then there's the added bonus of actually being somewhat useful. And, if he's being honest, he actually enjoys this kind of physical work. It reminds him of his roots. There's a humbleness to it that he rarely allows himself to experience, and it makes him happy in a way that feels real. Happy in a way that no amount of lavishness can achieve.

It's closer to the happiness that people bring.

Especially one person in particular.

Basien brings in four more loads of wood, and Napoleon is exhausted by the time they've completed the task.

"Why don't you go sit?" Bastien suggests, absently tugging at his beard as he inspects the pile of wood. "I'll make us some tea, and rustle up something to eat. I don't know about you but I have worked up an appetite."

"That actually sounds wonderful," Napoleon says, already turning to go sit down. He collapses into the chair and leans his head back with a sigh, closing his eyes as he lets his body relax. Now that he's not distracted by his work, his attention is drawn to the tenderness of his new scars and the throbbing ache of the crudely carved path that connects them like a tunnel through his body.

"How are you feeling?" Bastien calls, as eerily impeccable with his timing as ever.

"Fine," Napoleon says.

"Really?"

"A little sore," the American admits. "Nothing too serious. You didn't have to pick me up off the ground this time, so I'm taking that as a good sign."

"That is a good sign," Bastien agrees, entering the room with a cup of tea in hand. "Here. I've stew on the stove. The potatoes need to soften so we will have to be patient just a little longer."

Napoleon accepts the tea with a _thank you_ and sips at it. He still doesn't _like_ the stuff, but he's grown to tolerate it in his time here. As he sets the cup down, the wind starts to pick up outside, until it becomes a loud, low whistle, and he looks outside to see what can only be described as, well, a blizzard.

"It seems you were right," Napoleon says, turning away from the window. The second he's facing the kitchen, an aroma floats in that instantly has Napoleon's mouth watering.

It isn't that Bastien's cooking is _bad_. It's not, and it's certainly not the worst that Napoleon has had. It's just that it's been somewhat...bland. What Napoleon is smelling now is not bland by any stretch of the word. He can smell meat cooking, and sage, rosemary, garlic...It reminds him of his kitchen back home.

"What are you making?" he calls.

Bastien pokes his head around the corner. "Venison stew. It's my _schneesturm_ tradition! This time of year I begin to run low on many ingredients, so I save them for special occasions."

"And snow storms count as a special occasion?"

"Of course! I don't know how many days I-we-will be stuck here. At least I will eat well! And then when the snow begins to melt, I will head to Bürlingen and stock up on flour, spices, and-"

"Wait," Napoleon says. He hadn't thought about it until now, but remembers seeing a town called Bürlingen on the map. If he's right about where he was when he made Illya go on with the child, and based on how far Bastien could have carried him… "It must be some thirty miles from here! Surely that's farther than you could make it in a day."

"Thirty-two miles," Bastien corrects. "And that is only if you go by road. I go through the woods. It is just under twenty miles that way."

Napoleon's mind races. _This changes everything_. He'd been thinking that the nearest town would be at least two days' journey, with a night spent in the woods, which is something that even he would admit he isn't ready for yet. But under twenty miles? If he left at sunrise, he would make it to the town by dark.

"I could do that," he says aloud.

Bastien snorts, stepping into the room with two bowls in hand. "Perhaps. For now, enjoy your stew."

Napoleon wants to talk about the town more, and the walk there, but the smell of the meal is enough to convince him to eat. After the average meals he's been having the last several weeks, the rich, flavorful stew is almost enough to bring tears to his eyes, and for a few moments it's all he can think about.

But then the meal is over, and Napoleon and Bastien are once again sitting in front of the fire as the storm rages outside.

"I have to get back to London," Napoleon says.

"I know," Bastien says. "You mustn't go before you're ready. If you get caught in the woods after nightfall, you will likely not survive to see morning. Once the storm clears, I will go with you and we'll see how you fare. If you are not ready then, we will try again in a few days, and again until you are well enough to make it. _Klingt gut?_ "

Napoleon would almost rather just try and make it to town as soon as the storm is over, but he knows Bastien is right, so he just nods. "Yeah. That sounds good."

xxx

Napoleon is sure it's the longest blizzard in history. It's been two days, now, and the storm has barely let up. Not that it would matter if it did-he's fairly certain that they're snowed in at this point.

He has no idea when he'll get out of this damned cabin.

He's done a lot of reading. They've played cards, and chess, and swapped war stories. Napoleon has cooked a few meals, much to Bastien's delight.

But it's a long time to be stuck in a small space with one person, and as he sits half-reading _Rapunzel,_ Napoleon is finding it difficult to resist the urge to cave into his nature. He likes to pick at people's brains, to find what makes them tick, to needle and pry and see what comes out, all the while speaking calmly and wearing a smile. He's been pushing back that part of him, because Bastien is a kind man and Napoleon owes him his life. He isn't sure what it is, whether it's the tedium of reading the familiar story or if it's just that this is the most time he and Bastien have spent together, but suddenly he can't take it anymore and he puts his book down.

"You're hiding something," he says, and Bastien looks up from his whittling in surprise. "I haven't pushed it because you have been nothing but good to me, but I'd really like to know what it is. And seeing as we're going to continue to be stuck here together for a while, since you can't got out on account of the blizzard to hunt or chop firewood or whatever else it is you do when you want to avoid my questions, I think now is a good time for it."

He watches Bastien's face, gauging his reaction. He's hard to read, but Napoleon doesn't spot any obvious signs of anger-no tightening of the jaw or thinning of the lips, no flicker behind his eyes, no furrowed brow, even for a second, no stiffening of the posture. In fact, for a long time he doesn't move at all.

And then his shoulders sag, rounding forward, and he puts his head in his hands, and for all of Bastien's stature it makes him look small.

"You are sharp, Solo," he says eventually, lifting his head. "Often too sharp for your own good, I'm sure. And you are right. I...I have not been forthcoming with you, and in doing so have let you believe something which isn't the truth."

Napoleon can tell the man is stalling. "That's a lot of fancy words to tell me you lied to me," he says. Bastien's face pinches and the sadness there fills Napoleon with guilt. He continues in an attempt to smooth things over. "It's alright. I'm a complete stranger. You lied to me. It happens."

"I did not mean to deceive you, _Herr_ Solo. Only, I didn't want you to think less of me." He lets out a small, mirthless laugh. "I did not want you to think me a coward, and so I acted with cowardice. Man is funny that way, hm?" The smile fades, and with it any remnants of that happy facade Napoleon is so used to. What's left is misery and weariness.

"After the invasion of Bruges, after my wife...I escaped to England and joined the British army. All I wanted was to help, to...to fight. But…" He stiffens, and there's a change in his eyes. Napoleon has seen it time and time again in the faces of men recalling the war. He looks lost and hardened and remorseful, all at once. "My books and meager studies did very little to prepare me for the horrors of battle. Men shot full of holes, blown to pieces, losing limbs...I tried. I did. You have to believe me when I say that I tried." His voice is shaking now, and his hands.

"I believe you," Napoleon says, knowing that in this moment offering comfort is more important than whether he actually does.

Bastien swallows and sniffles before continuing. "I and another-his name was Pieter-we were separated from the rest of the men, behind enemy lines. We waited until nightfall to try and make our way back, but we were spotted and Pieter was hit. I acted on instinct. I put him over my shoulder and I ran and I ran until I couldn't run anymore. It wasn't until I put him down that I realized…" He looks down, swallowing hard. "His belly had been opened by the bullets. My…" He reaches back and pats his shoulder, eyes vacant. "My body had been holding everything in. I don't know how he was alive, but he was, and he awoke the instant I put him down. He moaned in agony. He hadn't the strength to scream, you see. He laid there, with his insides in his hands, crying. And he begged me. He begged me to end it."

This isn't the first story like this that Napoleon's heard. He was lucky, really, in his time in the war. While he certainly saw some horrific things, he hadn't had to witness firsthand the kind of carnage and suffering that was known to drive men halfway to madness.

"It was the merciful thing to do," Napoleon says. "Anyone in your place would have-"

"But I didn't," Bastien says, voice barely a whisper. "I didn't do it. I couldn't. He was just a boy, and I had a gun, bullets, but I couldn't...I sat and I listened to him beg until he couldn't speak anymore. I listened to the groans and whimpers fade to the sound of him gurgling, filling his lungs with his own blood. It lasted...hours. Hours, and I just sat in the dark with my hands over my ears humming lullabies. It was daybreak by the time he finally…"

He trails off, staring at the fire. Finally he moves, looking over at Napoleon.

"There is my secret, Solo. That is why I couldn't leave you out there in that snow and why I am so determined not to let you die while you're under my care. My conscience would not allow it." One corner of his mouth twitches up and he looks down, blinking away tears, chin wobbling. "After he breathed his last, I fled and I did not look back. I barely lasted eight weeks. I am not a soldier, or a doctor. I'm a deserter. I'm a coward."

They sit in silence for a long time. The air between them is thick. Bastien has returned to his whittling, but his movements are slow, distracted, and his expression is tense. It's obvious that he's worried about Napoleon's reaction. His opinion. Napoleon feels bad for making him wait, but he wants to say the right thing and for once, the right thing isn't obvious to him. So he says what he thinks is the merciful thing.

"War makes cowards of anyone who sees it, Bastien. Of one sort or another. Anyone who says otherwise is lying."

"What sort are you?"

Napoleon smiles. He should have seen that coming. "The sort that makes up charming stories to explain why I don't like the cold."

Bastien nods, once. The agonized expression has left his face. He'd always seemed at ease before, but Napoleon knows now that he'd been holding tension within him. He knows because that tension has drained from the large man's face, and he seems genuinely at ease. Peaceful even.

It all makes sense, now. The picture on the mirror. The medical supplies in the drawer. The dodging questions, and Bastien's decision to live alone in the woods. The solitude is something that, at one point, Napoleon would have envied.

It's funny how one person can change every carefully laid plan.

As he watches Bastien whittling away, looking somehow lighter just for having spoken a few carefully guarded words, Napoleon has a realization.

He has some carefully guarded words of their own, words that he now realizes need to be spoken. Words that he is determined to speak the moment the right person is there to hear them.

xxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be my last update until the New Year, as Christmas is a very busy time of year, with the added bonus of me having some big projects to work on AND I'll be meeting my sister's fiance in person for the first time! I hope you enjoyed the update (I tried to make it a little longer to you tide over) and as always your reviews support are appreciated!
> 
> Happy Holidays!!!
> 
> ~Leah


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry it's a short chapter, I hope it can tide you over til the next update! Things are getting tough over here in Real Life Land, but I'm working on chapter 12 to try and get it out in a more timely manner. Y'all keep me going! Sorry, it's an angsty one...

Illya tries to pack quickly, but his compulsive need for neatness prevents him from throwing everything into his suitcase the way Gaby does, the way even Napoleon has when there's been a need for it. He's gotten pretty good at folding his clothes cleanly into his bag in a timely fashion, but this time it isn't timely enough. He's in the middle of fitting his socks into the margins of space at one edge of his suitcase when Gaby enters the room in a huff, a frown on her face. She stops at the edge of Illya's bed, opposite the Russian, and folds her arms over her chest.

"I don't know what Waverly is thinking!"

Illya swallows and stares intently at his suitcase, moving the same pair of socks around the same three empty spaces as he avoids making eye contact with the tiny angry German.

"I ought to march down to his office and tell him what I think," Gaby continues. "We're finally ready to go back into the field, and he's sending you alone?"

Illya clears his throat in discomfort, still moving the socks aimlessly around the inside of his suitcase. He isn't one to lie to the people close to him. But concealing truth, well...that's not _really_ lying, now is it. And it's just as well she direct her anger at Waverly instead of him. After all, the Brit _is,_ technically, the one sending him alone...

"And to Moscow, no less! From the stories you've told me of Russia and your boss, you could use the backup. And I don't mean one of Waverly's obedient dime-a-dozen foot soldiers. You should be going with someone you trust. I should tell him that. I'm going to tell him that!"

Illya looks up for the first time, eyes wide, and Gaby catches the expression on his face and her own expression shifts to one of suspicion.

"What's going on with you?" she asks. "That's the first time you've even looked at me since I got here."

He'd been hoping, foolishly, that she was too busy talking to notice. "Nothing is going on," he says, turning back to the pair of socks in his hand. Gaby rounds the bed and snatches the socks from him, jamming them into one of the empty spaces before slamming the suitcase shut and staying there, leaning against it and looking up at Illya, eyes narrowed.

"You've been avoiding me, Illya. What aren't you telling me?"

Illya doesn't answer, trying to simultaneously come up with a believable lie and also decide whether or not he'll be able to deliver it convincingly enough to fool Gaby.

"Illya!" Gaby says.

He swallows again. His mouth has suddenly become very dry. "It was not Waverly's idea."

"What wasn't?"

Illya feels his shoulders slump and he lets out a long breath, looking down and somewhere to the left, his eyes suddenly attracted to a spot of something on the carpet. He sees Gaby straighten out of the corner of his eye, and there's a noticeable shift in the air.

"You're leaving, aren't you?"

Illya looks up at her in shock, and is horrified to see tears in her eyes. "What?"

"Moscow." She leans back and lets out a harsh, mirthless laugh. "I should have known. After everything, everything we've been through, everything _they_ have put you through, you're going back to them!"

"No!" Illya cries. "No, no, I am not leaving UNCLE, Gaby. I would not...But we won't be working together in the field anymore. I spoke with Waverly and he's agreed…"

Gaby's face hasn't changed from the look of betrayal and the angry tears are still brewing. "So you're not leaving UNCLE. You're just leaving me."

"I am not leaving you."

Gaby scoffs and furiously swipes the tears away. "Right," she says. "I suppose I should have seen this coming. We were a terrible match from the very beginning."

He hadn't expected a positive response, but her words are more hurtful than anything he'd prepared himself for. It flusters him. All of his prepared words ( _Napoleon is dead because of me. I can't be forced to choose between my duty and the people I love, not again. I care about you Gaby, deeply, and I just want you to be safe.)_ leave his mind and what comes out isn't even close.

"That-that is not true," he says. "And that's not it! Don't you-don't you see?. I am just trying to protect you. I am trying to keep you safe."

Gaby stares at him for a long moment, quietly seething. She moves so suddenly and so quickly that Illya doesn't have time to brace himself before the slap comes, fast and stinging. It startles him, but he doesn't feel the heat of anger that usually comes when someone hits him. Instead, he just feels sad, and guilty, and hollow.

"I do not need you to take care of me, Illya Kuyakin!" She's glaring at him, her fists balled at her sides. "I never asked you to take care of me! You aren't doing this for me. You're doing it because you are a coward. Solo is...he is _gone_. He's gone and he isn't coming back. There is nothing you or I can do about that. But these last weeks, I have been losing you, too. I have been watching you pull away from me more and more. After that night in his room together, I though that you would come back to me, but I was wrong. Solo was taken from me. But you? You're leaving and it's all your doing. Your choice."

She takes a deep breath, uncurling her fists and closing her eyes. When she opens them, they're cold. Hard. Her words are clipped and measured.

"I'm sorry I hit you. I understand your decision. It's fine, really. I was alone when UNCLE came to me and I was plenty effective. I can handle the field on my own. As can you, clearly. I wish you the best of luck, Agent Kuryakin, here or with the KGB or wherever you end up."

He watches her go, closing the door behind her, and he's unable to speak. His chest aches and he goes to take a step backward and stumbles instead, his back finding the wall. And then he sinks to the floor.

He wants to be angry. He wishes like hell that he were angry, or numb, or anything other than what he is.

Gaby was nearly right. His first instinct had been to go back to the KGB and not look back. He'd never felt pain like this when he worked for them. Hadn't felt much of anything, to be honest. He'd had his small pleasures-chess and reading and studying languages. And the ones he kept closer to him, like fashion and poetry. But mostly it was just the mission and the time until the next mission and that was it. No close relationships to make things messy.

To break his heart.

He'd stayed because of Gaby. And now he's pushed her away, which is the exact opposite of what he'd been trying to do except that he's an absolute _kozel_ and the harder he tries to do the right thing the worse things turn out and the more alone he makes himself.

The desire to swallow his pride and go back is stronger than ever.

The truth is, he's not sure they'd have him. He'd betrayed the KGB when he burned the tape, and although they couldn't prove he'd ever had the tape in the first place, much less been the one who actually destroyed it, he knows that they suspect him. Even if that weren't the case, he knows that going back wouldn't give him what he's looking for, which is to get back to the old version of himself. The version of himself that didn't feel true happiness or joy or _love_ , but which also didn't feel sadness and shame and heartbreak…That version of him is gone. Gaby and Waverly and that damned fucking American have ruined him.

He cares too much.

It's like a burn that keeps smoldering, leaving him wounded and vulnerable.

He doesn't know what to do.

So he stands. He opens his suitcase and carefully packs his socks. He will concentrate on his mission. And when he's finished, he'll wait for the next one. He'll throw himself into it and he'll readjust to working alone and maybe if he does it enough that will be the salve he needs to stop himself burning enough to go back to the man he was before (or something like him) and then he can leave and forget about his place and these people.

xxx

She walks out of the room and she doesn't look back because she knows if she does, she'll lose her resolve. She doesn't wipe her tears away, either, in case he's watching her. It makes everything blurry, but she can't let him know that she's crying. She knows she was harsher than she needed to be. Not the slap, but everything after.

He'd hurt her first.

It isn't just the leaving, but the fact that he didn't bother talking to her first. If he had, maybe she could have talked him out of it. At the very least, they could have had a good conversation. The going behind her back thing just pissed her off.

And now he's treating her like some sort of China doll. That's even worse. It's how her uncle (damn him; she hasn't spoken his name since that first mission) treated her after her father left. Not a doting concern, not the hovering, smothering kind. Instead, he distanced himself, as if being away could keep her from harm, or at least separate him from being responsible if anything did befall her.

It's exactly what Illya is doing now.

He can't wrap her in bubble wrap or lock her in a cabinet, so he's staying far away so that he can't take the blame if something happens. It's a horrible, cowardly thing to do, and selfish. And silly. He ought to know by now that Gaby's made of tougher stuff than that. And to be honest, if she is going to die on some mission (which she secretly hopes she does because she doesn't like the elderly and does not relish the idea of growing old) there's no one she would rather have by her side.

She thought he felt the same.

Evidently not.

Everything was so much easier before those two giant idiots had come crashing into her life with their bickering and spying and fashion.

She closes the door behind her as she finally reaches her room, and then flops facedown on the bed and cries and cries until she can't cry anymore and all that's left is hiccups. Once those subside, she rolls over onto her back and looks up at the ceiling.

She's used to relying on herself. That's what makes her tough, and smart. It's what had let her survive behind that fucking wall. If Illya wants to leave her, then so be it.

xxx


	12. Chapter 12

Bastien's plan, it turns out, was a good one.

The first time, they only make it a few miles before Napoleon is out of breath and he hurts so bad he can hardly think, and it's a miracle he makes it back to the cabin. But he exercises a little every day (a regime carefully set by Bastien that's mindful of Napoleon's wound and limitations, while still pushing him) and the next time he makes it a little further, and the next time, even further. On the in-between days, he does his exercises and helps Bastien with his daily tasks and he grows stronger.

It's on the fifth attempt that Bastien slows wordlessly to a stop.

"What is it?" Napoleon asks in a low voice. He's hardly even winded, and is certain that he could make it a great deal further. "Is there something out there?"

Bastien shakes his head once.

"I could keep going. I feel good."

Bastien finally turns to him and there's a smile in his eyes. "You see that tree up ahead? The one with the split trunk?"

Napoleon follows his gaze. "I do."

"Do you know what that is?"

"Uh…" Napoleon looks at it for a long moment. "European beech?"

The man lets out a laugh. "Well, yes. You're right. But it is more than that. That, Solo, is the halfway point. If you make it back to the cabin in good health, then we will know you are ready to go to Bürlingen. Then tomorrow we can rest and gather supplies, and the day after that, walk to town. From there it is just a ferry and a train ride back to London."

The rush of feelings that comes with Bastien's words is unexpected and overwhelming, and far too fast for Napoleon to prepare for, hitting him so hard that it causes a physical reaction-He's suddenly lightheaded, his legs turning to jelly and his knees buckling. Before he knows it's happening, he's leaning heavily against the nearest tree, narrowly avoiding ending up ass-down in the snow.

" _Herr_ Solo?" Bastien says in alarm. "Are you alright?

Napoleon looks up at him and nods with a wide-eyed stare. He blinks a few times and straightens up. "Yes, thank you, I'm alright just…It's been so long." Then, as he has so many times before, he finds himself bearing his soul to the stranger (though he's somewhat less of a stranger now) before him. "I've been waiting to go back for so long. And now it's almost here and, I...I'm ready, Bastien, I'm so ready, but I'm also afraid. Afraid that they've moved on."

_Afraid that they don't miss me they way I've been missing them, that they don't need me anymore…_

"Don't be silly," Bastien says, interrupting Napoleon's spiral of worst-case scenarios. His expression is warm and knowing and Napoleon almost wonders if the man is secretly Santa Claus or something. "Come, we must be getting back if we're to make it before dark."

He doesn't wait for Napoleon to respond before he turns around and starts walking back the way they came.

Napoleon looks at the forked tree for a few moments longer before he turns and follows Bastien back to the cabin.

xxx

He lays awake for hours, the anticipation of his impending journey home rendering him sleepless. Excitement mixes with nerves as his mind cycles through varied scenarios. He isn't sure how much time has passed with him staring at the orange glow of the embers dancing on the ceiling, but he sees the dark outside just beginning to lighten before he finally drifts off.

There's faint gray light coming in through the window when Napoleon is awakened by the sound of Bastien crying out, followed by a long string of swearing the likes of which he has never heard. He hears at least four different languages-wait, _five_ -including some especially creative expletives that he tucks away for future use even as he scrambles to his feet and runs for the back door, grabbing one of Bastien's coat as he goes and pulling it on before bursting out into the early morning.

He doesn't even notice the cold snow on his bare feet.

"Bastien!"

The Belgian is sitting in the snow, holding his booted left foot. There's blood on his hands and his foot and in a dark red patch in the snow. He stops swearing as Napoleon approaches and looks up at him.

"You could have put your shoes on first," he says. "It is only a small cut, Solo, I'm not dying!" His voice is taut with pain, his face pinched even as he tries to smile.

Napoleon doesn't have time to panic before he kicks into spy mode, all of his first-aid training rushing to the front of his mind. He's at Bastien's side before he realizes he's started moving, and then he's kneeling in the cold, white powder. It's hard to tell with all the blood, but after a cursory examination it doesn't appear to be too severe of a wound and no part of the appendage seems to be detached. Whether it really is just a nick remains to be seen.

"Will you be able to walk to the house?"

Bastien manages a laugh and raises an eyebrow. "Are you going to carry me?"

"Right. Let's get you inside," he says, bending down and pulling Bastien's arm around his shoulders. "I'm going to stand. Try not to put any weight on it."

He straightens, to let Bastien get his good leg beneath him and trying not to grunt under the large man's weight. It's the most strain he's put on his abdominal muscles in a good long while, and if he weren't so wrapped up in the current medical emergency he might be excited about the fact that all he feels from the site of the wound is a distant, dull ache. Bastien moves well despite his injury, and they make it into the cabin without much incident, Bastien remaining stoically quiet except to make a small remark about more blood on the floor. Napoleon briefly considers guiding him to the bedroom since it's closer and the medical supplies are in there, but the front room has better lighting so he makes the decision to keep going, down the hall a few more yards until he can finally lower Bastien gracelessly into his chair.

" _Danke_ ," Bastien says softly, and there's sweat beading his forehead.

Napoleon catches his breath for just a moment before saying, "Don't wander off." Bastien lets out a short bark of sarcastic laughter at that, as Napoleon doubles back and goes to Bastien's dresser where he knows the medical supplies are. He finds the bandages and iodine easily enough. It takes him longer to find a needle and thread, which he finally discovers tucked into an old tobacco tin. He grabs everything and returns to the front room.

" _Danke_ ," Bastien says again, leaning forward to unlace his shoes. "I will take it from here."

"No you won't," Napoleon responds, hurriedly setting everything on the ground and then swatting Bastien's hand away. "It's my turn to take care of you for a change. I've done enough field medicine to handle this. Can you wiggle your toes?"

There's a pause, and Bastien grimaces but nods. "Yes."

Napoleon tries not to let it show in his face just how relieved he is to hear that; if Bastien can move his toes, it's likely the tendons and bones in his foot are still intact. Which means that his first-aid training and field experience really should be enough. He doesn't say any of this. Instead he simply replies, "Good," as he loosens the laces on Bastien's boot. He removes it as carefully as he can.

The thick, wool sock underneath is dark and soaked through with blood, and as Napoleon removes it Bastien makes a sound, and Napoleon immediately stops moving.

"Did I hurt you?"

Bastien shakes his head once, and he looks embarrassed. "These are my best socks," he says.

Napoleon snorts and pulls the sock the rest of the way off. The gash is just at the base of Bastien's big toe, and pretty deep, though thankfully not too long. Napoleon isn't very good at stitches, and the fewer he has to do, the better.

"It isn't too bad," Napoleon says, looking up at Bastien. "Once I clean it and give you a few stitches it should be okay." As he continues, there's a sinking feeling. "But you're going to have to be careful of that foot at least until the stitches are ready to come out. In fact, it would be better to avoid standing on it altogether. Where do you keep your liquor? I need to clean this."

"In the cabinet beneath the counter."

Napoleon moves slower than he should, but he needs a few moments to process the disappointment. With this new development, he can't, with a clear conscience, walk to town tomorrow. Not just because Bastien won't be able to guide him the rest of the way through the woods, but because Napoleon can't leave him to and fend for himself, injured as he is.

Napoleon owes him at least that much.

Napoleon owes him his life.

He won't begrudge the man a week or two, as much as it hurts him to have to put off his reunion with his fellow UNCLE agents any longer than he already has. So he lets the sadness wash over him, and then he returns to the front room with a bottle of spirits and his usual coy expression arranged carefully on his features and gets started, pouring the alcohol over Bastien's foot. The man hisses in pain, his foot jerking slightly, and Napoleon murmurs an apology.

"It will need stitches," the Belgian says in response, leaning around to get a look at the wound.

"I'd say about six or eight," Napoleon responds. He looks up. "Would you agree, doctor?"

Bastien narrows his eyes at the wound and then at Napoleon. "I suppose that would do it, yes."

Napoleon grins and pulls out the suture kit.

"Have you done this before, Solo?" Bastien asks. He sounds nervous, and his expression is unsure.

"A few times. And I used to help my mother tailor clothes as an adolescent. I've become quite adept with a needle and thread."

"I am not a pair of trousers."

Napoleon lets out a laugh at that. "You had better be careful, Bastien. You make a joke like that while I'm stitching you up and I may put a stitch in the wrong place."

"I was not joking," Bastien mumbles. Napoleon pretends not to hear.

"You need a drink before I do this?" he asks.

Bastien responds by sticking his hand out, and Napoleon hands him the bottle, chugging a bit before setting the empty bottle on the little table beside him. "Alright."

There are a few minutes of silence as Napoleon carefully stitches the wound. Bastien stays very still and very quiet through the procedure, but the air is thick between them. It's been awhile since Napoleon stitched a person, and he finds it oddly calming-not the circumstances, but the familiar repetitive motion. He really had spent years of his youth helping his mother sew, and before he had made a name and small fortune for himself, he would tailor his own suits. It's another of those few special activities that reminds Napoleon of his humble roots. But even as his mind wanders, it keeps making its way back to what he has to do. He waits until he's finished tying off the last stitch before he speaks.

"Bastien-"

"No," Bastien interrupts, much to Napoleon's astonishment (though at this point he shouldn't be surprised).

"I-"

"You are not staying," Bastien says firmly.

Napoleon draws his mouth into a thin line as he rips open a package and pulls out the bandage inside, then tapes it carefully to the top of Bastien's foot.

"I can't leave you here like this," he says. "I owe you my life. And I don't like owing people."

"Consider your debt repaid," Bastien answers. "Those are some very tidy stitches. I don't know that I could have done better myself! I have already packed most of the things you will need. You need to go tomorrow."

"I can wait a few more days. I'll at least stay until the stitches are out. Besides, if I'm to make it to Bürlingen I'll need someone familiar with these woods to guide me. You're certainly not going to make it all the way there in one day on that foot."

"You're a good liar, Solo." Something in his voice gives Napoleon pause, and he has the distinct impression that Bastien sees more of Napoleon than Napoleon thought he was letting show. "And you've concealed nearly everything about yourself, and very well. But I know how smart you are. I saw it from the first moment you were awake. Standing there-" He gestures at the corner of the room. "-with my knife in your hand. I could see how you observed the room. And that was before I knew how many languages you speak, how well read you are. How skilled. If you tell me truthfully that you could not go out there and find the forked tree on your own, then I will drop the matter and you can stay as long as you like."

Napoleon doesn't answer. He could, of course. Between his keen sense of direction and his sharp memory, he knows he could easily make it back to the tree, following the exact route they'd taken yesterday. He considers lying, but he doesn't think Bastien would buy it.

"What about after I get to the tree? I don't know the way from there."

"I've a compass. Once you get to the tree, go northwest until you reach it. It is really very simple."

Napoleon sighs. "Bastien, I appreciate it. I do. But I can't in good conscience-"

"You have to," Bastien says. His face and tone are more serious than Napoleon has seen him. "The ferry that leaves the day after tomorrow is the last of the season. If you don't go tomorrow you will have to stay here until April."

Napoleon's heart sinks. A few days, weeks even, he could do. But months…

"I will be okay, Solo." The Belgian's voice is soft. "I have survived worse. I have lived alone here all of these years. As much as I have enjoyed your company, when you aren't a complete _nervensäge_ , if I keep you from your Illya any longer then it will be I who owes you a favor. And that is something I dislike even more than you do."

They're both quiet for a long time. Napoleon looks down at the floor, and he can feel Bastien's eyes drilling into him. He finally lifts his gaze.

"Thank you."

" _Bitte_. Now go get your bag from my bed, we should make sure you have what you need. You must be ready for your journey tomorrow. And put on some socks, your feet are making me cold just looking at them."

Napoleon does so, pulling on his socks before padding over to Bastien's room and grabbing the pack that's sitting on the foot of the bed. It's heavier than he expects, and he realizes he has no idea what's inside it. Or when Bastien even packed it, for that matter.

He brings it up when he enters the front room. "When did you do this?"

"I started getting things together after the first walk into the woods," Bastien replies.

"Couldn't wait to get me out of here, huh?"

Bastien chuckles. "Precisely."

Napoleon opens the bag and starts pulling items out to take inventory, setting them on the empty chair. There's a muslin sack on top that contains a waterproof case of matches, hardtack and venison jerky, several pairs of wool socks, and a nightshirt which is too big for Napoleon but which will do fine for one night. It's when he removes that that he sees what must be contributing to the heft of the bag.

There's a book, a plain brown hardcover. He pulls it out and turns it over in his hands. On the spine printed in gold, are the words _Walden oder Leben in den Wäldern_. He traces his fingers gently over the letters and then looks up at Bastien.

"I can't take this," he says.

"Do you know what _Walden_ means?"

"It's a surname. Anglo-Saxon, I believe," Napoleon answers.

"Mmhm. But do you know what it means?"

Napoleon shakes his head.

"It means 'foreigner from a wooded valley,'" Bastien says. "Perhaps you could take it home with you, and read it at your own Walden Pond."

"I…" Napoleon is at a loss for words. He doesn't know what he did to deserve this man's generosity, or his kindness, or his German translation of _Walden_ , but he's overcome by emotion that makes it impossible to speak. When he finally finds his voice, all he can think to say is, "I have a collection."

"That does not come as a surprise, Solo."

"But I can't, Bastien," Napoleon says at last, speaking firmly. "You have already given me too much. This would-this would be far, far too much. But thank you."

"Very well," Bastien says. "There are still a few more things to be packed. Your wallet is on the mantle, and you'll need to get my compass from there as well, and the hunting knife. And before you argue I have another compass, which I don't need because I know these woods very well, and another knife which is better than that one anyway. And a hunting rifle. I would be very upset if I nursed you back to health only for you to get lost in the woods and, defenseless, be torn to bits by wild animals."

"There must be some way I can repay you for what you've done," Napoleon says as he pulls the items down from the mantle. He opens his wallet and pulls out the cash he has there for emergencies. He holds it out to Bastien. "Here. It's not much, and some if it is dollars and pounds instead of francs, but maybe-"

Bastien gently pushes Napoleon's hand away. "You will need it to pay for lodging and travel." He takes a deep breath and lets it out, and as he does his shoulders relax. "I came out here after the war to hide. To hide from what I had done. I thought that living a simple life would, how would you say... _mich reinige_."

"Purify you? Or...Cleanse you?"

Bastien nods. "Cleanse me, yes. But it did not. My life is peaceful, but I did not find peace. Even in this private serenity, this soul of mine is...restless. There is a hole that was ripped open when I pulled that trigger. Then I found you in the woods. I did what I felt I had to do, for no reason other than that. But then you woke, and you told me of the people waiting for you, and I realized that more than just keeping you alive, I could help you get home to them. I could do for you what I could not do for him. I don't know how you ended up here, in such a state. I don't know who you are outside of this cabin. Honestly I can say that I prefer it that way. The point is, whoever you are, I think you ended up here for a reason. You mended my soul, _Herr_ Solo. The hole is still there, but it is not so gaping and it does not hurt so much." He stares at Napoleon, and the agent could almost swear there are tears in the big man's eyes.

He finally looks away, laughing a little. "Forgive me. I am talking nonsense. Too many books! And too much alcohol."

"No," Napoleon says, not mentioning the fact that he's fairly sure the amount of alcohol left in that bottle would have come nowhere close to making the big man drunk. "No, not at all. Truthfully, I wish I could speak the way you do, but anytime I try all that comes out is...insolence and teasing."

"The words are there, Solo. I have heard them. They want to be spoken. You just have to let them."

Napoleon looks down and begins returning the items to the bag, speaking as he does. "I've never met anyone that sees through me quite the way you do. And you always know just what to say. I have to ask." He looks up at Bastien and locks eyes with him, making sure his expression remains serious. "Are you Saint Peter?"

Bastien bursts into laughter, loud and boisterous, and Napoleon can't help but let out a chuckle himself. The Belgian finally settles down, wiping at his eyes.

"I see you read _Kinder-und Hausmärchen_! I didn't think you were a fan of fairy tales."

"I'm not, until all other options are exhausted."

Bastien smiles and sighs. "No, I am not Saint Peter, or Saint anyone. I am simply a man who spends far too much time reading."

"Personally, I don't think it's possible for one to spend _too_ much time reading," Napoleon says. It's at that moment that his stomach growls, loudly enough for Bastien to make a face, and he clears his throat in embarrassment, and to try and cover another rumble. "How about I rustle us up some lunch?"

Bastien makes a noise and pats his stomach. "Rustle away!"

As Napoleon walks to the little kitchen and starts pulling out ingredients, it occurs to him that after this, the next meal he cooks will be in his own kitchen. The thought makes his heart glow.

xxx


	13. Chapter 13

Enzo is sitting across the desk, looking moody. One elbow is propped on the arm of his chair and he's staring intently at the wall, his face resting on his hand, and his foot is tapping lightly against the wood floor which maybe wouldn't be so noticeable except that it's the only sound in the room.

"Agent Romero," Waverly says, finally breaking the silence when it's clear that Enzo isn't going to do so. "Why is it you wanted to meet with me today?"

Enzo turns, and the light from the desk lamp falls on his face, illuminating a bruise there, starting at his temple and circling around his eye, ending at a small cut on his cheekbone.

"I think Agent Kuryakin may be planning to tender his resignation," he says.

Although not entirely surprising, it makes Waverly's heart sink and he lets out a sigh. "What makes you think so?" he asks, worriedly eyeing the bruising.

"He didn't do this," Enzo says, gesturing at his eye "But he thinks himself responsible."

"Is he?"

"He was on the other side of the building and there were four operatives closer to me. There was nothing he could have done, and it was not even his job. Even so, he refused to leave my side until the medic cleared me, and must have apologized a dozen times on the way back. These last few ops, he has been putting an enormous amount of pressure on himself. More than he already did. But at the same time, he has become...more violent, more reckless."

Waverly listens carefully as the man continues, mulling his words over and trying not to make any judgements before he needs to.

"I have seen him kill men with his bare hands, in a manner more savage than I have ever witnessed from him. There is a rage there, Waverly, that I am not ashamed to say frightens me. Not because I think he would turn on me, because I do not believe that. But seeing a man behave in this way...And he throws himself into danger without any thought. He regularly disobeys orders and has a habit of picking fights with people who outweigh or outgun him. It is as though...I hate to say this but it is as if he _wants_ to be killed. Just in these past weeks he has had to be stitched or bandaged more times than in the rest of the time I have known him. He is not recovering from what happened to his partner. I think seeing me go down-the bastard who hit me knocked me unconscious-frightened him. He withdrew from Teller and now I believe he will withdraw from me, and perhaps from UNCLE altogether."

Waverly sits, quiet. He isn't blind; he doesn't need to be out in the field with the man to know that he isn't handling the death of Napoleon Solo well. But it's worse than he imagined. He knows how important it was to Kuryakin to master his anger. That, it seems, has gone out the window (he should have guessed that by the hole in the bedroom wall), along with any sense of self-preservation. Not desirable qualities in an agent, not even one as skilled as the Russian…

"Is there anything else?" he asks.

Enzo clears his throat and takes a deep breath. "I think you should let him. So far he has only been a risk to himself, but if he continues as he is, that could change. Quickly. I am not saying fire him, not at this point. But if he asks to leave…" He shrugs. "I do not know that you could stop him anyway, but if he asks I think the best thing would be to let him go."

He looks nervous, like he's expecting Waverly to shout or lecture him. His hands are now in his lap, fidgeting as he awaits Waverly's response. The Brit decides not to torture him any longer.

"Thank you for coming to me, Agent Romero. I imagine that wasn't easy for you. You did the right thing. You may go."

Enzo nods once and stands, moving toward the door.

"Oh! Erm, Enzo?"

He turns.

"I think it best we keep this between ourselves, yes?"

"Of course, Waverly."

"Good. Very good. As you were, then, agent."

Enzo nods again and steps out of the office, closing the door behind him. Waverly waits a few seconds before he lets his head fall forward, hitting the desk with a soft _thunk_. He stays that way, resting his forehead against the cool wood, moving his arms up and resting his hands on the back of his head, and lets out a long sigh, his hot breath hitting the table and blowing back at his face.

"Bugger," he mumbles. "Bugger, fuck…" He lifts his head slightly and lets it fall again and then lets out a long, guttural groan. He doesn't hear the door open.

"Um...sir?"

"Not now, Cynthia!" he barks at his desk, and the door closes again. He stays there a moment longer and then sits up with a weary sigh and rolls himself a cigar and tries to think of a way to get his tobacco written off as a work expense.

xxx

"I would have come to you sooner, except I thought it best to wait until Agent Teller was out of the country."

Waverly doesn't answer. He had been hoping Enzo was wrong. But now Illya is standing in front of him looking like a kicked puppy and doing exactly what the Italian said he would and Waverly has to decide whether to lose another of his best agents, the idea of which or hates, or strongarm him into staying, thereby ruining the raport they've built and turning the Russian into a forced hire instead of a trusted colleague. He hates that idea, too.

"...Sir?"

"Hm? Oh, yes." He does his best to seem nonchalant, covering the fact that under the surface is utter turmoil. "A wise decision, yes. I imagine she would be quite upset with you over this. Well, more upset I mean."

"Yes." His eyes are wide, his hands fidgeting at his sides. He looks strangely small, vulnerable even.

"Thinking of going back to the KGB then, are you? Because I'm not sure the people that this organization represents would like that very much."

"No! No, even if I could I do not think they would have me," Illya says. "And I don't want to go back to Russia. I need...fresh start. If you will let me go."

Waverly watches him for a moment longer. Setting Illya Kuryakin free, with his skills and knowledge, is reckless. Downright dangerous, actually. As the head of a clandestine organization, it goes against everything in him. But as a friend, or something close...

"I'll have Cynthia sort out your pay. You'll get severance, of course. And I'm sure I don't need to remind you that you are not to speak of any detail of any operation or operative, past or present, or you will be placed under arrest and tried for treason."

Illya blinks. He looks surprised, and for a moment Waverly regrets not fighting for him to stay. But then the man's shoulders relax, just the slightest bit, and he nods. There's relief in the gesture.

"Of course. Thank you, sir."

"It has been a pleasure working with you, Kuryakin." Waverly doesn't want to get too sentimental, for both of their sakes, but he can't stop himself from adding, "You have been a very special agent."

A corner of Illya's mouth lifts just slightly, and he looks down at his feet. "Well, this is not a very special day." He looks like he wants to say more, but changes his mind, instead stepping forward and reaching forward with one hand. Waverly shakes it and gives a small nod, and then Illya Kuryakin walks out of the office and closes the door behind him.

Waverly regrets his decision immediately, and it's everything he can do not to call after the agent (former agent) and tell him that _no_ he cannot leave. But he can't do that. Waverly owes Kuryakin the right to pursue a fresh start And he's going to do what he can to help him do that.

He picks up his phone and dials zero.

"Operator? Yes, this is Alexander Waverly, authorization Golf Sierra Romeo, zero-niner-one-zero-six-eight, confirm."

" _Waverly confirmed. Go ahead."_

"Put me through to Red-five-one."

" _Right away, sir."_

There's a click and a dial tone, followed by a few seconds of silence, and then another click.

" _Zdravstvuyte?"_ It's a woman who asks in a voice roughened by years of smoking.

"Yes, hello. I would like to speak to your boss, please. Thank you very much."

He hears her say something in Russian to someone in the room with her, and then a familiar floats out of the telephone.

" _What do you want?"_

"Mr. Oleg. We need to have a chat."

The man lets out a low chuckle. " _I knew this day would come. The day that you would tire of his temper. Or did he die, like the_ srányj _American?"_

Waverly grits his teeth at the insult, tightening his free hand into a fist and reminding himself that at this moment, maintaining his composure is vital. He also reminds himself how lucky he is that Oleg is in Russia and not across the desk from him, because it would be infinitely more difficult to keep himself from launching himself at the man and strangling the life out of him if he had to see his stupid smug face in person. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before he responds.

"Neither, actually. You would have found out sooner or later, so I thought I would tell you myself. Agent Kuryakin has chosen to leave my employ. But you should know that he will remain under my protection until such time as I state explicitly otherwise, if such an occasion should arise at all."

" _That was not part of our agreement,"_ Oleg says.

"No, indeed. But Kuryakin is a good agent, Mr. Oleg, and I am not ashamed to say I have grown rather fond of him. So we have a new agreement, and that agreement is that you will leave him be."

" _And what do I get from this...agreement?"_

Waverly leans forward. "I will not go after you. You must remember, Oleg, I represent my organization, and my organization represents...well, you know. So I suggest you leave Illya be, because if anyone associated with the KGB so much as bumps shoulders with him on the sidewalk, then I will take it all the way to the top."

" _You are bluffing,"_ Oleg growls. " _Even if you weren't, what would they do about it? Former KGB agent with a reputation such as his? They do not care about people like him."_

Waverly has one card left to play, one that he has been holding close. One that he's willing to play for Illya's sake. "'I don't like people who have never fallen or stumbled. Their virtue is lifeless and of little value. Life hasn't revealed its beauty to them.' Boris Pasternak wrote that. He's quite a way with words, hasn't he?" He's greeted with furious silence, and he almost smiles. "Are you there?"

" _Yes, I am here."_

"Good, I was worried our connection had got bungled! Now, I found _Doctor Zhivago_ to be quite moving, but the Party...Well, they don't appreciate that particular piece of literature as much as you or I, now do they? What do you think would happen if they knew that a high-ranking member of the KGB had had a copy snuck past the Iron Curtain for himself? Surely you would lose your position, at the very least...Or you can leave Illya Kuryakin alone and I will keep your little guilty pleasure to myself. That is what you get from this agreement. Do we have an understanding?"

He can hear Oleg breathing heavily, and then finally, " _We do."_

"Very good! Just one last thing before you go. If by some unfortunate twist of fate we ever find ourselves speaking again and you have the urge to insult one of my agents, former or otherwise? Do yourself a favor and don't. Also, you should watch the film if you get the chance. Omar Sharif is spellbinding."

He hangs up before he can hear the Russian's response.

xxx


	14. Chapter 14

The morning is bitterly cold, the clouds having cleared overnight, and though he's slightly embarrassed at having had to accept more handouts Napoleon is grateful for the extra layers, scarf, and ushanka hat provided by Bastien. As he kneels by the fireplace, lacing up his boots, he can't help but think that he's going to miss this place. Well, maybe not _miss_ , he can't wait to get home, but he appreciates the solitude and the beauty of the surroundings. He appreciates the company, too. He wants to do something for the man, to repay his kindness.

That's why he's stolen the photograph from the mirror, of the young soldier and his beloved, and replaced it with a note:

_He's haunted you long enough. Remember Thoreau: Live in each season as it passes. That winter is long since passed. Enjoy your spring. -Solo_

The mirror. Napoleon had been avoiding the thing since the first time he saw his reflection, so in Bastien's room a few moments ago is the first time he's seen himself in a while. He has a full beard now, and his hair is curling down over his ears and forehead. Between that and the too-large wardrobe from Bastien, he looks like some sort of rugged, woodsy vagabond. He would be lying if he said that the look didn't work for him in a strange way, but he's greatly looking forward to sitting down at his barber and letting him work his magic.

He straightens up from tying his shoes and looks over at the door that he's about to go out for the last time, and it's more bittersweet than he would have expected.

"How are you feeling?" Bastien says, leaning against the wall as he balances on his good foot.

Napoleon ponders the question for a moment and then smiles. "Ready."

"You have everything you need?"

"Mmhm."

"And you remember how to get there?"

"I do."

"You have the compass in your pocket?"

Napoleon laughs. "Yes, Bastien."

The Belgian smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Good. Then I suppose that means it's time to give you your farewell gift."

"Bastien, you really-" He doesn't have time to finish the thought before something is flying at his face, and he reacts just in time to catch it. It's a pair of mittens, clearly hand knit. He can tell just by looking at them that they're far too big, and they aren't the same size.

"I'm afraid they aren't quite how I pictured them," Bastien says, and he looks almost shy.

Napoleon looks up at him. "They're perfect, Bastien. Thank you, for...for everything. I would list all of the things you did for me, but I have a ferry to catch tomorrow, so I simply don't have the time..." And then he steps forward and wraps Bastien in as tight a hug as he can while bearing in mind the fact that the man is balancing on one leg. After a moment, Bastien hugs him back with the arm that isn't keeping him from tipping over. Napoleon pulls away after a second and swallows the lump in his throat.

"Be mindful of that foot. Those are the best stitches I've ever done and it would be a shame if you were to bust them prematurely."

"I will be careful if you will."

"Deal," Napoleon says. He turns, and then pauses at the door. "May I ask you one thing before I go?"

"You may."

"What was his name? The young soldier."

"Um-" Bastien frowns, obviously caught off guard by the question. "Provoost. Mathieu Provoost."

Napoleon nods and pulls on the mittens. "So long, Bastien."

"Goodbye, Solo."

And then the agent is out in the frigid pre-dawn, shutting the door behind him. There's just enough light to see by, the brightest stars still visible, and Napoleon is sure that this is the most beautiful morning he's ever seen. He's grateful that there's no one around to see his face and the stupid grin that he can't seem to wipe off of it.

He normally hates the cold, but today it feels like endless potential and the promise of good things to come. It feels like victory, it feels like freedom, it feels like love…

A few hours later, when the wet has started to soak through the toe of one boot and the cold has settled into his bones it feels like the unforgiving, icy grip of some horrible, beautiful creature that wants to make Napoleon's life miserable. It really is a glorious day, with a brilliant sky that's not as pale as the usual winter blue. The sun is shining, casting an enchanting, cool glow on the forest. But it's colder than the other times he and Bastien have made the trek through the woods. Cold and harsh and horrible. But as much as the romantic poeticism that had started the day has waned, his spirits are still high.

Every step takes him closer to Illya.

When he can focus his attention on something other than the excitement or the nerves, he's thinking about what he's going to say when they reunite. Nothing feels right so far.

 _I missed you_. Obvious. Impersonal.

 _I thought about you every day_. Nope. Absolutely not. Way too much.

 _I dreamt about you-_ God, that's even worse!

He kicks at the snow a little as he walks. It was so easy, talking with Bastien, opening up. Well, not at first. But he barely knew the man and was still able to bare his soul after just a few days. He's known Illya for years. He's been in life or death situations with the man. They've saved each other more times than he can count, shared drinks and beds and secrets, and yet he can't seem to be honest with him the way he wishes he could.

Maybe it's the cold that has been spurring him, or his thoughts, but he gets to the split tree ahead of schedule. It's time for a break then, and then he'll get his bearings before he makes the second leg of his trip-the unfamiliar leg that will require his concentration. It's probably for the best that his mind will be forced to take a break.

He pulls the backpack off and pulls it around to the front, opens it and immediately sighs. The copy of _Walden_ is sitting on top of everything.

"Stubborn son of a…"

He shakes his head with a small smile and moves it aside, pulling out the muslin bag that has his lunch in it. He eats quickly, then answers nature's call. And then it's him and his compass and Bastien's instructions. He orients himself, and then he starts to walk.

xxx

The sun is low and orange, the sky a pale lavender when Napoleon sees the lights of Bürlingen. The mounting fatigue he'd been feeling vanishes, and he's hit with a burst of energy because _this is getting real_. The town isn't just an idea anymore, a tiny spot on a map or a place at the end of some directions. It's real, and it's right in front of him and even though two seconds ago he would have been happy to just collapse into the snow and take a nap, that desire has been replaced with the need to push on and to get there.

The rest of the walk is a blur, his tired and aching and very cold body carried the final miles by pure excitement, and before he knows it the trees thin, giving way to a few houses on the outskirts of Bürlingen, which turns out to be less of a town and more of a village, and even that's generous. There's a shoddy little road veering from the west that Napoleon assumes must lead to the man road, though it becomes cobblestone once it reaches the two neat rows of quaint little buildings, lying parallel to one another on either side of the cobbled street. He can hear the hum of life, of people just _being_ , for the first time in what feels like an eternity, and combined with the warm yellow light spilling from windows and a few single-globe street lamps, the place feels vibrant and inviting despite the growing darkness casting long shadows on the empty street.

He walks over the stones, taking in the beauty of the simple architecture around him and peering into windows while trying not to look too suspicious. Lodging isn't difficult to find; the bed and breakfast is the tallest building in the row, rising a full story above the next highest. The idea of food makes his stomach rumble and he steps a little faster.

There's a small, hand-carved sign hanging perpendicular to the building that says _Gaststätte Bürlingen_ , with a simple drawing of a pint glass overflowing with...something etched on it. It's the kind of place that normally he would only stay in if he were undercover-definitely not the silk sheets and caviar kind of accommodation he's grown accustomed to. But it looks warm, and cozy, and to be honest they could serve him three day leftovers and show him to a mattress stuffed with straw and he'd be happy.

He opens the door and is instantly hit with warm air and the thrum of conversation and a hospitable mix of smells-cigars and booze and hot oil and must. It's overwhelming, really, and he stands in the doorway until someone shouts at him in drunken German, something about letting the cold in, and he's shaken from his stupor, stepping into the pub-like room and pulling the door shut behind him.

His stomach grumbles and he hurries to the counter, finding an empty stool to sit on and leaning forward on one elbow.

" _Guten Abend_!" he says, and the barkeep, a shortish man a bit older than middle-aged and with the biggest sideburns Napoleon has ever seen, looks up at him with an unamused expression.

" _Bitte Schön_ ," he answers drily as he runs a towel on the inside of a glass.

Now that Napoleon has stopped moving, the exhaustion is setting in, and though he knows the language well he can't seem to find the words he's looking for in German. "I, uh...I'm very sorry. Do you speak any English? _Sprichst du Englisch_?"

The man glances up at him. "Yes."

Napoleon lets out a sigh of relief. "Could I get your best ale, please? And…" He squints up the menu board and picks the first thing he recognizes. "...boudin blanc? And I'll be needing a room. Just for the night."

The man nods again and Napoleon smiles.

"Thank you, uh…What's your name?"

"Alfons."

"Thank you, Alfons."

Alfons shouts the order into the kitchen before pouring a pint of ale and setting it down in front of Napoleon, who takes a long drink and then sets it down on the counter with a sigh.

"That is just what I needed, _danke_."

Alphons grunts in response, then grumbles, "Food will be ready soon."

"Thank you," Napoleon says, taking another drink. The ale does him good, and he finds he's able to think a little more clearly. "Do you know a man called Bastien?"

Alfons pauses at that, his body coming to rest for the first time since Napoleon's set eyes on him, and his whole demeanor changes, loosening. "I do," he says. "Bastien from the woods. He comes through few times each year for supplies. He is a good man."

"He is," Napoleon agrees, though it's the understatement of the century. "If I were to send a letter to you, here, would you give it to Bastien the next time you see him? He did something for me and I would like the chance to thank him properly."

Alfons nods, returning to his drying. "I can do that, yes." He looks Napoleon up and down and says, "You want a bath in your room?"

"Hm?" The subject has changed so quickly that it catches Napoleon off-guard.

"Bath. Bathe. You want a room with a bath?"

It's been ages since Napoleon had a proper bath, and the idea of it sounds so nice that he isn't even embarrassed at the question. Plus he doesn't want to return to HQ smelling like...well, like he hasn't had a proper bath in ages. "Yes, please."

Alphons rings a bell and a girl appears at the end of the little bar. The bartender gives her instructions in German faster and differently accented than Napoleon is used to (though he can tell, at least, that it's something about getting a room ready) and she nods before scurrying away.

No sooner has she disappeared then a bell rings and someone shouts something, and then Alphonse is putting a fork and plate on the counter and the smell wafts up to Napoleon that instantly sets his mouth to watering. Besides the two pale sausages there's a piece of warm bread, a portion of smooth mashed potatoes, and something that appears to be applesauce and the aroma is herby and buttery and as he picks up his fork, it's everything in his power not to set upon the meal like some sort of ravenous beast. Hungry as he is though, it's impossible not to eat a little quicker than usual.

A few bites in, he's already worried that it might give him a stomachache. The boudin blanc is herby and light, the potatoes buttery and well salted, and it's as satisfying as any Michelin star meal he's had. But he hasn't had much fat in his diet in two months, so even the relatively mild dinner may be too rich for him.

He's finally able to slow down after devouring half the plate, enough to pause for a drink of ale and a question.

"When does the first ferry leave tomorrow?" he asks.

"Ten," Alphons answers. "You're enjoying your meal?"

Napoleon nods. "Yes. Very much, thank you. My compliments to the chef!"

He finishes his plate only a few moments later. Alphons looks at the empty dish and then at Napoleon with his eyebrows raised, but doesn't say anything, just takes the plate and passes it to someone in the kitchen. Napoleon sips at his ale, and he thinks. Ten is later than he'd hoped to leave, but there's not much he can do about it. It may be to his advantage, though, to have a little time to get himself put together before the train ride back to London.

"Does Bürlingen have a dry cleaner?" Alphons looks puzzled. "A, um... _Waschsalon_?"

Alphons lets out a hearty laugh and shakes his head. "No."

Napoleon sighs. His clothes are positively filthy. He supposes they match the hair and the beard, though. "Right. Well, thank you for the drink, and the fine meal. I think I'll retire now. Take advantage of that bath."

"Very well. _Guten nacht, fremder_." Goodnight, stranger.

" _Guten nacht_ , Alphons."

He stands, groaning as he stretches his overworked legs and the tender spot in his side is pulled.

"Here," Alphons says, holding out a key. "Room sixteen."

Napoleon takes it with a nod and a smile, and then trudges over to the staircase. It's a small miracle that he's able to drag himself up the stairs and another that he resists immediately collapsing on the bed in order to peel off his filthy clothes and draw a bath. It's still running when he climbs in, and he can't stop the moan that escapes him as he lowers himself into the steaming bath. The hot water envelops him and he leans his head back with a sigh, letting the tension melt from him as his body relaxes.

 _I ought to open my eyes_ , he thinks. _Or I may doze off._

xxx

He's standing at the door of HQ and every nerve is tingling with excitement.

_This is it._

He's imagined the reunion so many times. But when he opens the door, it isn't the lobby. Instead, he's in his old flat back in New York. Someone is sitting in the armchair, facing away from him, and Napoleon recognizes him immediately. There's no mistaking the smell of Fuente cigars, or that stupid, ugly hat.

"Sanders," he says, stepping into the room and trying not to lose his cool. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Solo!" the man replies, craning to look at him but not moving to stand. He gestures at the couch. "Come, sit!"

Napoleon does so, reluctantly, heart hammering. "Why are you here?" he repeats as he sits on the olive velvet sofa-the first thing he'd bought himself after being strong-armed into joining the CIA. He hasn't missed it.

"Well, who were you expecting? Did you really think Ill-"

"Don't say his name," Napoleon says coolly.

Sanders smirks. "Hm. You've gone soft."

Napoleon clenches his jaw, his fists curling as he forces himself to stay seated. "Get out." Everything about this feels off, and there's something tickling the back of his mind…"I've got a train to catch," he says slowly.

"A train to where? London?" His lips curl into a sickly smile. "You think they're just been there, waiting, ready for you to return so they could welcome you with open arms? They didn't even bother to look for you!"

The words are like a dagger, and Napoleon stands quickly. "I'm sure they did their best," he says.

Sanders throws his head back and lets out a laugh that makes Napoleon's skin crawl. "All of UNCLE's resources, and you don't think they'd be able to find that cabin? Half a day's walk from the road? A day's walk from town? You're deluding yourself, Solo. The truth is, they couldn't wait to be rid of you. You were always going to end up back here."

xxx

Napoleon jerks awake with a gasp and flails, gripping the sides of the tub and sloshing water all over the bathroom floor. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, and his heart is beating so fast he thinks it may give out. He can't have been asleep very long-the water's still plenty warm and his fingers are just starting to get pruny-but it was long enough for another fucking nightmare.

His mind keeps replaying Dream Sanders's words over and over as he scrubs himself clean. He loses track of what he's doing more than once, and there are a few places on his skin that are angry pink from him scrubbing so hard.

He curses that gap-toothed, poxy bastard for ruining his relaxation.

Once he's gone over every inch of his body with soap and rinsed well, he pulls the plug and sits in the bath as the water drains out. It's a habit that's carried over from childhood, one of the few. It had been an act of courage in his younger days-showing that bath that he wasn't afraid of being sucked down the drain along with the water, even though every time there'd been a small part of him that was just the smallest bit frightened of it happening. He's outgrown the fear, but not the routine. And so he sits, feeling the water inch down his body, exposing him little by little to the cold air until the last bit of water is sucked noisily down the drain.

Getting out of the tub is much less pleasurable than getting into it had been. He towels himself off as quickly as he can, irritated by how much longer than normal it takes to dry his too-long hair, before throwing on Bastien's nightshirt, crawling into bed, and closing his eyes. His mind is still racing, but his body is exhausted, and it's a mercifully short time before he's fast asleep.

xxx


End file.
